


Charlie does the Foxtrot – A new take

by Steve2



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adults drinking - but not very well, Bongos, Comedy, F/M, Humor, ICW, Swearing, Werewolves, Yet more swearing, more swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 11:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 125,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve2/pseuds/Steve2
Summary: Fudge believed that everything was going according to his grand plan when Harry Potter was found guilty of underage magic…. Oh Boy! Was he wrong! Now expanded! Crack-fic.





	1. Shafting Harry

Author’s Notes:  
Hi everyone. To answer the immediate question longtime fanfiction readers may have: Yes, this is a remake of the story: ‘Charlie does the Foxtrot or Damn the Torpedoes’ by Lady FoxFire. She was gracious enough to allow me to give her story a new take on it. This, then, is my view on that story.

A few comments on this story:  
Lady FoxFire’s story was initially 4 chapters long. I have kept much of the content intact, adding some additional content when I thought it needed some for later expansion. The original 4-chapter layout has been modified for the purposes of my story.

Initially, this story was listed in the Drama category. My take on it is purely humor. Ah, let’s face it: this is a crack fic.

There will plenty of bad language in here. You have been warned. Hence, the rating I gave it.

The settings is the summer after the Tournament in Book 4 and before the start of Book 5.

Contrary to popular belief, this story is not about Charlie Weasley. He may or may not be in later chapters.

As Lady FoxFire initially stated in her story: “Charlie Foxtrot is a military expression for a clusterfuck.” (See… I told you there would be bad language in this story and it has already started.) For those of you uninitiated to this term, it basically represents a situation in which you’re screwed… but if you play your cards right, not only will you survive, you’ll win and your enemies will lose.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series. This is purely for fun.

**-o0o-**

Courtroom Ten sucked. Harry really hated being there. Not so much due to the poor lighting but more to the fact that almost all the geezers sitting in their chairs held pompous attitudes like they knew their shit didn’t stink or something. Not that they suspected it, but that they knew it. Down the very fiber of their aged and withered bodies. Maybe a few here and there weren’t stuck up, but most of them looked to be caught up in themselves.

Harry waited for the members of the Wizengamot to hand down their sentence for his supposed crime of underage magic. Not that having to pay a fine was such a lofty sentence. He had remained standing in proud defiance as Umbridge twisted the truth into a poor mockery of itself. At times his eyes would flicker over to the only empty seat among the members of Wizengamot: the seat that Albus Dumbledore normally occupied.

He had lost interest in wondering what the big cheese (aka: Albus) found more interesting than helping him get past a trumped up charge. In fact, he had lost interest days ago when the old goat had stuffed him into Sirius’s place without so much as a “Here’s our game plan.” He just opened the door, shucked one bespectacled kid into the house and closed it back up. It wasn’t the cupboard under the stairs again – you see, at least at #12 Grimmauld Place he had a library to peruse.

Fudge stood proud and adjusted his robes, harrumphing loudly to get the courtroom to settle down. Harry tilted his head slightly to the left as he waited for the foregone conclusion. He may not have been a genius like Hermione, but he was no one’s fool, especially when he was about to be railroaded.

Fudge unrolled a scroll and looked to the assembled members, then to Harry. “It is the decision of this Wizengamot that the defendant, Harry James Potter has been found guilty of the charge of underage magic and of violating the Statute of Secrecy. Due to the defendant’s inability to refrain from using magic around Muggles, it is the decision of this court that Mr. Potter is to be expelled from Hogwarts and his wand is to be snapped.”

Mutter-mutter, mumble-mumble went the old fossils as if this verdict was a surprise.

One of the Wizengamot members looked gently down on Harry and suggested, “If it’s at any consolation, Mr. Potter, you don’t have to leave the wizard community. To the wizarding world you will be seen as a type of squib… a squib that could use magic… um… if you had a wand… um… which you don’t. Well, I mean I’m sure you can find work someplace in our community instead of going back to those nasty muggles. I mean some of the things muggles do are barbaric. I mean, have you ever had to use one of those public loos? You have to turn on a water faucet by yourself. Definitely not proper things anyone should do. You could perhaps find a nice young witch to marry? I know my brother is looking for a nice young wiz… man to wed my niece”

Harry tipped his head at the Wizengamot member who had spoken. “Thank you for your words, sir. At this point in time I plan on reviewing my options before I make a decision,” Harry replied. Turning Harry looked directly at the Minister. “Is there anything else that must be done or may I leave?”

Minister Fudge looked down upon Harry; the disappointment he was feeling over how the young man was behaving evident in his face. He was certain the young man would have been wailing or cursing up a storm. “There is just one thing, Mr. Potter,” Fudge said as he held up Harry’s wand. “The snapping of your wand.” And with that Fudge grasped Harry’s wand with both hands and snapped it in half. “The remains of your wand will remain in Ministry custody as evidence of your crimes.”

Harry nodded his head in acceptance before turning and walking out of Courtroom Ten.

**-o0o-**

Harry was just passing the Fountain of Magical Brethren when an older lady called out to him as she hurried towards him.

“Mr. Potter, I’m Cathy Wickens of the Daily Prophet,” the woman introduced herself when she reached him.

“Ah, one of Rita Skeeter’s co-workers,” The disgust was very evident in his voice as Harry started to walk past the woman.

“Well yes and no,” Wickens replied, quickly following Harry. “Rita works big stories. She interviews important people. I’m just a simple court reporter.”

Harry turned to face the reporter. “So you don’t add your own spin to your articles?”

“Spin? I don’t know what your mean Mr. Potter,” Wickens replied. “I’m required by law to report court proceedings accurately. What I write is the truth as it’s reported in court, nothing more.”

Harry stared at the woman for a moment before sighing wearily. “So what do you want?”

“Well… umm…” Wickens dug up a piece of parchment and her quill. “It’s been reported that you were found guilty of underage magic and breaking the Statute of Secrecy and had your wand snapped.”

“Hmmm…” Harry stood there his arms crossed over his chest.

“Well… umm… would you like to comment of your court case?” Wickens asked.

Harry bowed his head for a moment, thinking how best to phrase a response before saying, “My verdict showed me just how much the magical community values truth and justice, and that is something that I will take to heart.” Harry looked at his watch, then to the elevators. “Now if you will excuse me, I have some matters that I need to deal with.”

It was a few minutes before 9 o’clock when Albus Dumbledore walked into Courtroom Ten with Arabella Figg following close behind, only to find the courtroom completely empty.

Dumbledore took in the empty room before saying, “This is not good.”

-o0o-

Early as it was in the day, Harry took no chance of anyone else recognizing him and grabbed a paper out of a trash can, used a bit of origami and made himself a stinky, smelly and really bad-looking hat. It would suffice until he got to the bank where he found no customers waiting yet. Throwing the hat into a waste can, he approached the teller window.

Minutes later, Harry entered the office of the goblin that had served as the family financial advisor for the entire Potter clan in both the Muggle and Magical worlds. This goblin had started in that position back in the mid-1950’s when there was much more work to do and profit to acquire as there were many more Potters along with more direction from the heads of the wand user families. Now the Potter clan consisted solely of Harry.

“How can Gringotts be of service, Mr. Potter?” the goblin said once Harry had taken a seat in the chair in the front of the goblin’s desk.

“Well Account Manager Bloodstone, I seem to have come upon a quandary and I would like to know Gringotts’ stance on the matter,” Harry answered, not hesitating with this statement.

“And what exactly is that matter that has you here asking for Gringotts’ opinion?” Bloodstone asked.

“I’m sure that you’ve been informed that today I was on trial for underage magic along with breaking the Statute of Secrecy,” Harry said.

Bloodstone nodded his head. “Yes. I have been informed that the Wizengamot has found you guilty and your wand had been snapped. In fact, we have already received a memo from the Ministry requiring us to seize your account as you are, and I quote, ‘no longer considered a wizard and therefore should not have access to wizarding funds’.”

“They certainly didn’t waste time trying to get my funds, did they?”

“No sir, they did not,” Bloodstone agreed.

“Let me guess: requested by Fudge then?”

“Actually this was sent to us by the Senior Undersecretary, Umbridge. What is interesting about this request is that she sent it before your trial even started.”

“No surprise there then. Well, it appears I now have two issues to discuss. First, what is Gringott’s stance on the Ministry request?”

“They have a right to request that of anyone’s account, Mr. Potter. However, we have an equal obligation to refuse unless certain conditions are met, of which breaking the Statute of Secrecy does not meet that condition. Your finances are secure and safe with us, Mr. Potter.”

Harry let out a breath of relief, unaware that he was holding it in. Harry nodded his head while he spoke. “Thank you for informing me of the Ministry’s latest attempt to do me harm. And it is the Ministry that is the source of my bigger issue. You see after my third year at Hogwarts I developed an interest in magical laws in an effort to find a way to force the Ministry to having a trial for my godfather, Sirius Black, who was imprisoned in Azkaban for over a decade without first being tried and convicted.”

Harry didn’t notice Account Manager Bloodstone’s eyes go wide at the implication that a prominent account was held in stasis, earning no profit for the owner or the bank for a decade, due to wizards being so lazy they couldn’t even find the time to try a person in absentia. He made a note of this while his account owner continued supplying background information for the question that was coming.

Harry continued, “So this past school year I took it upon myself to read up on the laws governing magical citizens whenever I had a chance. One particular law stood out in my mind and that is that no person under 17 years of age can stand before the Wizengamot unless they are being tried for the crime of murder or treason. It was the opinion of the times the law was written that the members of the Wizengamot were too busy dealing with other matters, so trials before Wizengamot were reserved for adult matters only,” Harry explained.

“And underage magic is not an adult matter,” Bloodstone agreed with a nod of his head.

“Exactly. By being placed on trial in front of the Wizengamot, the Wizengamot has declared me to be adult in the eyes of the law and therefore I could not be tried for underage magic,” Harry explained. “As for the charge of breaking the Statute of Secrecy, I believe the maximum fine is 200 Galleons or six weeks in minimum security ward of Azkaban; therefore the breaking of my wand was illegal. Of course I would like to hear Gringotts’ opinion about whether or not I am an adult in the eyes of the law and therefore in eyes of the goblin nation.”

Bloodstone’s eyes narrowed. “To what end would you want my people’s opinion in matter that affects wizards only,” he clarified.

Harry smiled a fierce smile, one that promised blood and pain towards his enemies. “I just wish to serve the wizard community the same amount of truth and justice they supplied me but while I do so I also do not want to make an enemy of Gringotts or the goblin nation. As my current plan stands, my actions would make this branch of Gringotts a possible enemy,” he explained.

“And that is something you wish to avoid,” Bloodstone replied.

“It is,” Harry agreed. “Of course this depends on if matters turn out to be as I suspect they will.”

“And what of other Gringotts branches?”

“I would be quite welcome there I believe. Especially if what I believe is correct.”

“And what are these matters,” Bloodstone asked.

“Matters I cannot investigate nor initiate until I am 17 years old or have been declared an adult in the eyes of the law, and by extension, Gringotts,” Harry replied.

“And if Gringotts decides not to see you as an adult until you reach the age of 17?” Bloodstone prompted.

“Then I will end up hurting all of Gringotts, not just one branch and this is something I wish to avoid. I would rather have the goblin nation as an ally instead of an enemy,” Harry answered.

“And if matters are not as you have assumed?” Bloodstone said.

“Then my plans will have little effect on Gringotts or the goblin nation,” Harry answered. “But I am confident that matters are as I believe them to be.”

Account Manager Bloodstone sat back in his chair and stared at Harry. “I am either taking the life of my family and my own in my hand or I have been granted the greatest prize the goblin nation has won in hundreds of years…” he said. He took a deep breath and clearly stated, “Because of your trial before the Wizengamot today, which is mandated in the Ministry’s laws that it be used solely for adults, Gringotts is declaring that Harry Potter is an adult in all matters legal and financial and shall be dealt with as stated for his status.”

Harry let out another sigh of relief as he slumped in his chair. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Account Manager Bloodstone nodded his head as he acknowledged that Harry had played the game admirably… for a novice. He had much to learn still. “So how can Gringotts be of service, Mr. Potter?”

“I would like to see my parents’ will,” Harry replied.

Bloodstone nodded his head. “Immediately after your parents’ death, the Wizengamot ordered their will to be frozen until you came of age, which is now today.” He summoned another goblin, and spoke to him in Gobbledegook. The goblin hurried off. “Now while we wait for your parents’ will to be retrieved, how else can Gringotts aid you?”

“Well… I’m sure you know how the wizard community likes to intermarry,” Harry said. “And with the last two wars killing off so many families… I was wondering if Gringotts has a way of determining if someone was heir to an account.”

Account Manager Bloodstone stared at Harry for a moment before he chuckled darkly. “That can be arranged for the cost of 50 Galleons. Of course Gringotts makes no promises that you will discover you are the heir of any accounts except ones you already are.”

Harry waved off Bloodstone’s comment. “And I am sure that I will find one account other than my parents that I am an heir to. After all my mother was Muggleborn, so there has to be one account she was heir to.”

Bloodstone blinked a couple of times in response to Harry’s comment. “I don’t follow your logic,” he said. “If your mother was Muggleborn then she shouldn’t be the heir to any account.”

“That’s assuming that magic suddenly was granted to her and that she wasn’t the descendent of a squib who was banished from the wizard community a long time ago,” Harry replied.

Bloodstone spent a moment lost in thought before nodding his head. “And since Muggleborns are told that they are the first in their family to have magic they never bother to see if what they’re told is actually the truth.”

“I find that the wizard community tends to believe what they are told is truth without checking the facts themselves,” Harry added in. “What’s the American term… oh yes, sheeple. The wizard community is made up mostly of sheeple.”

“With a few wolves thrown in to thin out the herd,” Bloodstone added in.

“Or to lead the herd to go in the direction the wolves want,” Harry said. “There are killing wolves and then there are controlling wolves. I plan to be the fox that steals all the wool and leave behind all the baaing sheeple for the wolves to deal with.”

Bloodstone blinked a couple time as he was clued in to Harry’s goal. “Of course if a shepherd would appear and help the poor sheeple in their time of need…”

“I’m sure they would grant the shepherd anything they wanted like a seat on the Wizengamot. Of course the shepherd would have to step in before the wolves gained control again,” Harry supplied.

“Yes, of course. Timing is everything in matters such as this,” Bloodstone agreed thoughtfully.

It was then that the goblin returned with the Potter’s will in hand. Bloodstone took the will and then handed it over to Harry, unopened.

Harry opened the will and read it quickly. “Just as I suspected. I was never meant to go to the Dursley’s,” Harry handed the will over for Bloodstone to read. “My parents wisely listed in their will who was their secret keeper along with a list of people that I am to be placed with in the event that Sirius was unable to take me.”

Bloodstone read over the will. “No, not surprising at all. We here at Gringotts have often questioned things that Dumbledore has forced through the Wizengamot.”

Harry nodded his head, his brow furrowed in thought. “So it appears that I have to pull the teeth from two wolves instead of one. I had been so hoping that Dumbledore had not been informed of the change in time for my trial but it appears he wanted me to be the sacrificial sheeple.”

“How do you plan on pulling the teeth from the wolves?” Bloodstone asked.

“Pulling Voldemort’s teeth is actually going to be fairly easy and undoubtedly very profitable since he has already given me the key to do so,” Harry admitted. “When I started looking into the Ministry laws after my third year, I requested some books on the subjects from the bookstore here in Diagon. I got six books, most of which were fairly new having been written sometime during this century. But one was rather old and had a very interesting dog-eared page along with a smudge of strawberry jam.”

“Strawberry jam?” Bloodstone was confused.

Harry smiled. “Yes. Nothing malicious I assure you. I believe that someone had read the book while eating a sandwich and left part of their meal behind on the cover page. Somehow the book remained in the store’s inventory until I sent a blanket request for all types of law books. I’m sure someone smiled at the chance to get rid of that jam-smeared book and get full value for it.”

“That’s terrible! You paid full value for a damaged article?”

“I did, and even though that jam is spelled to not come off, it was worth every knut I paid. Especially when I cross-referenced it with the other books and found that none of them made mention of it, nor of its contents.”

“Might I know the title of this book?” Bloodstone was curious.

“Conquering Made E-Z,” Harry replied. He saw the confusion on Account Manager Bloodstone’s face. “The book title is not what it all appears to be. It was the dog-eared page that was important. It was my reading of ‘Chapter 5: The Legalities of Conquering’ that changed my life.”

Bloodstone considered what he knew of the wand-users now and what he knew about them centuries ago. He queried, “When was the book written?”

“About 425 years ago. The preservation charm on it was still intact.”

Bloodstone contemplated an ancient tome like that and his smile grew from a soft one the wand users were used to, to that of a warrior looking for a kill. “Fortuitous luck on that, Mr. Potter. Will you be using these legalities for all the wolves?”

“Not all. As for Dumbledore… I can only hope that when we test to see if I’m the heir to any other accounts, we find his downfall.”

Bloodstone’s furious grin showed no signs of stopping. “Perhaps you’ll care to tell me how you plan to pull the Dark Lord’s teeth while we wait from someone from the inheritance department to arrive.”

“That would be my pleasure,” Harry replied.

While account owner and account manager conversed, many notes were taken, plans revised, and additional tests were run based on observations as well as just plain common sense. The same common sense that many Wizards and Witches were bereft of.

**-o0o-**

Negotiations done and plans in place, Harry purchased a black stocking cap with a West Ham United logo prominently displayed in the front (which would cover the infamous scar) from the Gringotts gift store that none of the purebloods knew about but that every muggleborn knew existed, put it on and quickly left the bank. The logo confused all the magicals he passed, but once back in London proper, his cap went unnoticed other than some people he passed thought the poor confused kid was wearing a stocking cap in the middle of summer. Kids these days, sheesh, was a frequent comment Harry heard as he headed for London St Pancras where he would purchase a ticket to take the Eurostar through the Chunnel.

So far his trust in adults was at an all-time pitifully low level, but his faith in the goblins was fairly high. Not only had all access to his entire fortune been sealed for a short amount of time (at his request), but they had managed to open up other accounts (outside of Britain), and put together a nifty passport. Once Harry got to Paris, he would meet up with another goblin-liaison and continue his trek to Switzerland. And ultimately, to another Gringotts branch.


	2. Shafting Sirius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius gets shafted. Several times.

**More Author’s Notes:**  
Okay. Another chapter. If anyone has read the original story, most of this will be new and some of it not. Should anyone that read the original story have any questions of what happened to this or that character or situation, drop me a note. Maybe I’ve covered that in later chapters. So far, I have 10 chapters plotted.

A few comments on this story:  
There is still more swearing coming your way. You have been warned. Again.

I do this writing for fun, not for profit.

I really like reviews.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter series. This is purely for fun.

**-o0o-**

In the kitchen of #12 Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore called a meeting of his semi-secret organization, the Order of the Phoenix, together. “Thank you for arriving on such short notice,” Dumbledore said, looking all 100+ years his age. Well, looks could always be deceiving the magical world.

“Is it Harry?” Molly demanded before anyone could say anything. “Is he alright? Did something happen to him?”

“Now, now, Molly, give the Headmaster a chance to speak,” Arthur soothed his wife. “I’m sure that Harry is alright.”

“Where is Harry?” Sirius asked, not smelling his godson on the Headmaster’s robes. Remus didn’t smell Harry’s scent either with his more sophisticated nose. “Did something happen?”

Dumbledore slowly sat down at the head of the kitchen table, thereby subtly informing he was still in charge. “Unfortunately something did happen,” he took a deep breath to maximize the dramatic affect. “Minister Fudge changed the time of the trial. I didn’t learn of this until after the Wizengamot had found Harry guilty.”

“Where is Harry?” Sirius growled as Remus laid a hand on Sirius’s shoulder that many (including Sirius) took as a sign of support while others (including Albus) took it as the beginning attempt to restrain him if necessary.

Dumbledore sadly shook his head. “I don’t know. He left the building before I arrived and no one knows where he went.”

Remus, thoroughly jaded by his post-Hogwarts years, had lost most of naiveté, although working at Hogwarts in Harry’s third year had brought some of it back that he hadn’t known existed when the Headmaster pushed buttons he didn’t know he had. Since the end of that year, his eyes had become much more open. And he recognized that something didn’t smell right here.

“You don’t know?” Sirius snarled like a wild animal. “How could you not know?!”

“As I said, he had already left the building by the time I arrived,” Dumbledore replied in a firm tone of voice. “We will find him, Sirius. You just need to be patient.”

“Patient!” Sirius exclaimed as he rose to his feet. “I’ve been patient for almost two bloody years waiting for you to get me a trial! I had to wait patiently on the sidelines when you forced my godson through that Merlin-be-damned Tri-wizard Tournament. Of course if you had stopped for a moment you would have realized that he never had to compete at all in those tasks! All the kids had to do was play some children’s game and then Harry would have been out it and then those who actually entered their name could have competed. But no, the great Dumbledore, trust me to make sure Harry gets a fair trial, made him compete!”

The flare of Dumbledore’s nostrils was the only indication of his anger at Sirius’ words as he maintained his calm, grandfatherly façade. “Things are easier said than done, Sirius.”

“That’s a load of crock!” Sirius snapped back. “You could easily have discovered that there was no record of my trial and convinced the Wizengamot to give me one. Of course once that was agreed upon all you needed next was to have your pet Aurors arrest me and drag me before the Wizengamot. And instead of allowing Fudge and the Prophet to print lies about Harry, you could have had him brought before the Wizengamot to give testimony about what happened. I’m sure that Diggory would want to know the truth about his son’s murder! Of course we can’t have the truth come out right now because then Saint Dumbledore won’t look good when everyone learns the truth months later after he’s suffered through the abuse and ridicule.”

Dumbledore slammed his hands down on that table. “That’s enough, Sirius!”

“You’re right, that is enough!” Sirius growled. “I’ve had enough of listening to you preach about your so called ‘greater good’ crap. About giving monsters like Snape a second chance while denying mine.” Sirius looked around at the shocked faces gathered about the table. “The rest of you can stay and listen to Saint Dumbledore tell you how it should be but I’m going out there to find my godson!”

Dumbledore’s wand appeared in his hand. “I can’t let you do that, Sirius,” he said, stunning the younger man. He collapsed immediately as Remus rushed to cushion his fall.

Dumbledore looked around at his followers. “I’m afraid that this stress on top of his time in Azkaban has been too much for poor Sirius. I didn’t realize until now how much stress the poor boy was under.” Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “I know he didn’t really mean anything that he said. It was his worry for Harry that made him say all of that.”

A number of people around the table (which didn’t include Remus) nodded their heads in agreement.

“I’ve seen Sirius looking out the window and sigh in longing to be out there,” Molly chimed in. “Or he’s watching the sky for Harry’s owl, Hedwig.”

Dumbledore nodded his head. “Unfortunately if Sirius left the protection of this house he would be in constant danger not only from Voldemort and his Death eaters but from the Ministry itself. No, Sirius is safest here. And when we find Harry, we will bring him back here too until I can have him reinstated at Hogwarts.”

“But how can we find him?” someone from the other end of the table demanded. “The boy could be anywhere!”

“I don’t believe so,” Dumbledore replied with a kind smile, confident that he knew best (as usual). “I believe Harry will stay close to places he knows. Diagon Alley. Little Whinging. The Burrow. Perhaps he could even make it up to Hogsmeade and Hogwarts. Those are the places we need to start our search.”

The members of the Order of the Phoenix quickly fell back under Dumbledore’s sway and were soon plotting out their plans of how to find Harry, kidnap him and bring him back to the house where they lock him in no matter what his wishes were. They were used to taking their que from the Headmaster, so civil liberties were in a bit of a nebulous zone with the would-be criminals… er… pragmatic Phoenix clubbers.

No one even noticed when Remus levitated Sirius out of the room and back to his bedroom, nor did they notice that Remus didn’t return to kitchen and had in fact stayed with his friend.

-o0o-

Sirius blinked his eyes and noticed something peculiar. Moments before he was looking forward and seeing light coming through a window. Now he was looking forward and seeing a ceiling. His hands stretched around for a few seconds. Finding something familiar, he said out loud, “Why am I waking up in my bed?”

“Because it beats waking up on a floor,” Remus answered from a chair near the bed. “Feel better?”

“I take it I was stunned?”

“You take it right,” Remus agreed.

Sirius sat up and moved to get off the bed. “Might I know why I was stunned?”

“If I had to guess, the Headmaster thought you were being a shit head so he stunned you for your own good.”

“No shit?” Sirius stood up. Morning light was coming through the windows, so he knew he hadn’t been stunned long. Or hoped that was the case.

“No shit,” Remus replied, standing as well.

Intensity took over Sirius’ face. “That asshole headmaster may think I shouldn’t look for Harry, but I’ve got to go find him and make sure he is safe.”

“Yes, I know. He’ll be like a lamb to the slaughter unless we find him in the real world,” Remus said.

“Don’t get in my way to find Harry, Remus.”

“Wasn’t planning to, Sirius.”

“You better let me go at this alone. No telling what will happen out there. You can stay safe here.”

Remus looked at this friend. He was sincere. He wanted his sole remaining school friend kept safe while he went looking for his godson. Remus nodded and walked up to his best friend. He then smacked Sirius upside the head. He made it a good smack.

“I hope that smacked some sense into your thick head much like James’ mum used to do to all of us back in school. You going out there without me? Forget it. I’m going. Jerk.”

Sirius, rubbing the back of head as Remus really did know how to smack some sense into someone, smiled a sheepish grin. “Thanks, Remus.”

“You’re welcome. Now how are we going to go out and find Harry? You’re still a wanted man, Sirius. It’s dangerous out there.”

“I know it’s dangerous but we can do it. Going to Muggle London will be like going to Wisconsin or something. We’ll blend in. No one will recognize us.”

“No one other than the police, you numb-nuts. You’re still a wanted man even by them.”

“We won’t get caught, believe me. I’ve got a plan.”

“What kind of plan?”

“A cunning plan.”

Moments later, the balcony doors were opened and Remus lowered Sirius to the ground with a floating charm, and once on the ground, Sirius lowered Remus with the same charm. Outside, the two quickly left the Black estate, or as Sirius liked to call it: the Black Dump: Bring Your Trash Here.

Once outside the property and back in sight of all the neighbors, Remus looked at this friend and said, “Alright, let’s hear your cunning plan to help us go incognito in London.”

Sirius produced a couple of non-prescription glasses from his pocket.

“I read somewhere that you can fool anyone with a pair of glasses on your face. The world is full of gullible morons that will look past you as long as you look like one of the worker drones. Just look at Clark Kent…”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Put it on and let’s go.”

Remus rolled his eyes and took one of the glasses and put it on.

**-o0o-**

An hour later came a series of firsts for the two wizards looking for the wayward younger wizard. Glasses on, they entered a coffee shop and Sirius found himself drinking his first ever latte. The fact that it had caramel and chocolate drizzled on it was a bonus he thought. It was yum.

Unfortunately as Sirius drank from his paper cup and Remus looked at a multi-colored map of London he grabbed from a Tube station (which, also unfortunately for them was just a map of the tube stops, and not a real map of London but hey, they were wizards so what did they know), Sirius encountered his next “first” as they left the shop. And that was being tackled to the ground by two burly Bobbies, each with a knee on an arm and another knee on his back.

Remus, startled by the event was going to move to help his friend, but unfortunately for him, he too found that same “first” as Sirius with two burly police officers (also known as Bobbies to you yanks), each with a knee on an arm and another knee on his back.

The scene, already startling for many pedestrians on the city block became even more frantic as several police cars screeched to a halt in front of the subdued men. Lights flashing and sirens wailing, more Bobbies jumped out of the cars and onto the prone backs of the two helpless wizards.

“We’ve got you now, Black!” yelled one of the constables as he wrenched Sirius’ arms to a position he liked in order to snap on some cuffs. A similar situation happened to Remus. Except the constable’s exclamation there was: “We’ve got you now, whoever you are!”

“Carl, who is this bloke anyway?” a second officer muttered while wrenching Remus’ arms behind his back to cuff him as well.

“Dunno. Don’t care. He was with Black. Take him in.”

The constables soon had both criminals in the back of a car and heading to the local station house in order to throw them in a cell. Sirius looked at Remus. He just shook his head while looking back at Sirius.

“Hey, copper,” Sirius said to the officer in front.

“Not a copper, creep! Those are in America. Badge made of copper. Get it? Now shut it!”

“Bronze then?” Sirius said in an upbeat voice.

“Australia, numbskull. Zip it or else.”

“Look, I’m not asking for trouble. All I’m curious to know is: how did you find me? I was in disguise.”

The other office up front looked back at the shackled men. “Really? That was a disguise? Wearing glasses does not instantly hide oneself, Black. You take us for gullible morons?”

Unfortunately for the two men, while being fingerprinted was a new first for each as well, being arrested was not.

**-o0o-**

A precinct house is normally busy. Today was even busier. They had a high-profile capture with no casualties. Party time.

Captain Kirk, that is to say, Captain Kirk Steward sat at his desk, smiling as he spoke with the next man up the chain in charge of capturing Black. “Yes sir, one of my boys recognized Black from his wanted posters a few years back. Still as ugly as ever.”

Long pause.

“Yes, I will pass on word of appreciation from your department for the lads. You will be sending someone to pick him up when?” Pause. “Hold on, Inspector. There is a commotion outside.”

A rushed conversation later, the Captain was back on the phone. “Change of plans, sir. Black has lawyered up. The Smith firm is here.” Pause. “No sir, I don’t think you understand. It’s all the Smiths from Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, Smith, and Smith.” Another pause. “No sir, I don’t understand what a cadre of financial, securities, and tax lawyers are doing here with Black, but the lads are understandably nervous now.”

Pause. “Yes sir, trial lawyers we can handle any day of the week. But tax lawyers?” Yet another pause. “Yes sir, I understand the differences of a trial lawyer and a tax lawyer. But you try explaining that to 30 nervous officers who haven’t gotten a pay increase in two years.” One more pause. “Yes sir, he’s right outside. One second.”

The Inspector could faintly hear the Captain get up, go the door, open it, mumble something to someone and then come back to his desk and sit down.

“Sir,” Captain Kirk announced loudly, “you are now on speakerphone. With me is a representative of the Smith firm.”

“My name is,” the Inspector started only to be spoken over immediately.

“Inspector Goodman, currently working high profile cases in Scotland Yard. Currently married yet having two financial accounts in two different banks. Reason: you need to offset some of your funds to support your girlfriend in Glasgow, namely one Mary Roogers. She recently purchased a small dog and named it Myrna. They are currently at the veterinarian’s office. It has worms. We are aware of who you are, Inspector. My name is Mr. Smith. I am a partner with the Smith firm. We represent Mr. Black in all financial dealings.”

“Yes sir,” Inspector Goodman again started, intending to break the lawyer’s stride.

“We would like to see all documentation relating to Mr. Black’s arrest, trial, and incarceration. Reason: we were advised when he was arrested in 1981. This notification, which stated he was allegedly working alongside a terrorist at that time, required that all of his financials be suspended and eventually turned over to the Crown. Mr. Black comes from a very old family. He has quite a bit of financial resources. These were all put on hold. All dealings, Inspector. All profits that he was to make for the past 14 years have been put on hold. All recompense we were to make as Mr. Black’s financial team over the past 14 years were also put on hold.”

“Yes sir,” Inspector Goodman tried yet again to break into the conversation.

“The problem, Inspector Goodman, is that we never received an official writ of his guilt. We only had a verbal advisement. So allow me to be blunt. If we do not get a copy of the arrest record along with a copy of his trial transcripts and the summary paperwork detailing his conviction and prison sentence in the next two hours, we are going to file lawsuits. Not just one blanket lawsuit for gross injustice, and not one lawsuit for each person involved in this cover-up, but multiple lawsuits for each person involved in every court we can. We will be suing individuals, groups, agencies, departments, shires, towns, cities, and countries. Anyone and everyone. This includes all arresting officers today, the station personnel here, its Captain, and yourself, Inspector. We have lost money and we plan to get it back.”

“Yes sir,” Inspector Goodman replied wearily. “Allow me to make a few calls and we will get you all conviction documentation. I will be in touch shortly. Where may I call you?”

“Here,” Mr. Smith answered firmly. “We are not leaving until we have all trial content in hand. Remember: you have two hours before we begin lawsuit proceedings.”

A hundred years ago, had a lawyer demanded paperwork of a client’s offenses and conviction, it would have taken days just to get the request to wherever the paperwork was housed, or days to get it freshly written up if nothing existed to begin with. The telephone changed all that. Well, partially changed that. Inspector Goodman began making calls immediately after speaking with Mr. Smith. Within minutes he had his staff, tracking down everything about Sirius Black they could find. His school records, his employment records, and most importantly, his arrest, trial and conviction records. His staff was some of the smartest and most dedicated of the department. They were no slouches when it came to research, and they were persistent enough to track down any lead.

Yet all of this did not matter as they quickly found that Sirius Black did not exist. He did not have any sort of identity. He did not go to any school. He had never been to a doctor. He never held a job. Had never been fingerprinted. There were no trial records. Worse, there were no records of him in any prison. With just over one hour remaining in Mr. Smith’s deadline, Inspector Goodman weighed his options.

One: he could ask Mr. Smith for more time. He did not believe Mr. Smith would grant an extension for him, and would immediately begin legal proceedings. Not a good idea. Risk: high.

Two: he could get a team on falsifying arrest, trial and court records. That could be done, as unpleasant as that concept was. It would buy him time to find the real ones. However, he could not falsify prison records and he believed that they would zero in on that fairly quick. Should that happen, legal proceedings (both by the Smith firm as well as countless agencies within the commonwealth that would want a scapegoat to take the blame for creating false documents) would begin. Risk: high.

Three: he could pass the buck to his superiors. Let them take the heat for this cock-up. Risk: low.

Inspector Goodman, who had worked for Scotland Yard for decades made the best decision he could. He called his HR representative to find out when he could take retirement. Answer in hand (which was more a precaution in case he got an answer he didn’t like from his boss), he then called his director and pushed Mr. Smith’s request onto him. His superior, being no slouch and realizing his Inspector had been thorough in the short time he was given, also ran the numbers in his head. He too passed the buck to his superior. And so on it went for another 15 minutes before England’s current PM, John Major, was pulled out of an important meeting to take an even more important call. Information conveyed and timeline established, PM John Major hung up the phone, locked his door, and stood in front of the bloody awful painting in his office.

“Get that Magic Minister here now.”

The painting replied, “I’m sorry, but the Minister for Magic is currently unavailable. May I take a message?”

The PM really did not like leaving messages without the context behind it, nor messages lacking the emotions he was feeling at the time. So, in a strained voice, he said, “Tell that buffoon if he is not in my office inside 5 minutes, I will call downstairs to maintenance for your painting’s removal.”

“Your muggle maintenance men will not be able to remove my painting. It is spelled to remain on your wall.”

“I know that. And I have no intention of having them get rid of a frame and canvas. But they do have an abundance of paint stripper. Get him here. Or else.”

Roughly seven minutes later, the PM had to quickly usher out a couple maintenance workers with paint stripper cans in their hands when said painting made a coughing sound when said workers had their backs turned. The door once again locked, PM John Major waited for the magical buffoon to appear. A pop sound later, a bodyguard and a non-bowler hat-wearing flunky were in his office.

The conversation, as heard and remembered by PM John Major when he brought it up later with the Queen, went something like this:

PM: “We have Black in custody.”

Flunky: “Great! The minister’s day is getting better and better. First Potter and now Black. Turn him over. Is he outside?”

PM: “No, stupid. He is in custody at a police station. Where are his arrest, trial, and conviction papers?”

Flunky: “Who cares?! Just hand him over to us and we’ll be on our way.”

PM: “I care. So do the taxpayers. After all, we had to find him for you. Hand over his records and we hand him over.”

Flunky: “You’re obstructing justice, muggle. You need to hand him over to us. This is a magical matter.”

PM: “This is a human matter. No paperwork means no prisoner.”

Flunky: “You’re just a worthless muggle. You will do as I say and hand him over to us or else.”

PM: “Or else what?”

Flunky: “Auror, arrest him and make him hand over Black.”

Auror: “I’m not arresting him. We have no jurisdiction. We’ll need 24 hours to get the paperwork collected and handed over.”

PM: “You have 12 hours. Until midnight tonight. Make sure your Minister knows.”

Auror: “Understood.”

Flunky: “I’ll have your job! I’m the Senior Undersecretary and have as much power as the Minister!”

Auror: “Whatever, Madam Umbridge. You going to be quiet so I can apparate us back to the ministry or do you want to try it again yourself?”

Sulking, the supposed-woman and the larger auror popped away.

The PM called the station house and spoke with Mr. Smith. The paperwork would be provided but would take 24 hours to assemble. The lawyers and the PM negotiated this time down to 12 hours, at midnight. John Major was nothing if not experienced with working negotiations with lawyers. In the meantime, the station house was to provide any amenities to the lawyers while they were visiting their client since it was made very apparent they were not leaving until paperwork was in hand.

While the local police force was not happy to be hosting tax lawyers at all, they made do by giving the lawyers a larger interrogation room to set up shop in and then brought Sirius Black to them. In short order, they then brought up Black’s friend and put him in the room as well. And another short order after that, they brought up lunch. And then wet naps since someone had tackled Mr. Black to the ground while he had been in the process of drinking a beverage that left chocolate and caramel smudges all over his clothes.

And of course, at approximately 8pm, dinner was ordered for the bevy of lawyers and their two clients. Several armed officers stood outside the room, although it was unclear if they were guarding others from entering the room, or guarding those inside the room from leaving. Either way, it was a win-win scenario for everyone in the building.

At approximately 11:30 pm local time, PM John Major entered his office and headed straight for the desk. He put a can of something on the large wooden desk then walked over to the painting and snapped his fingers to get it to respond. The painting looked at the PM who then pointed at the can of paint stripper on the desk. The painting got the hint and nodded.

“Get me the head buffoon you call the Minister for Magic.”

The man in the painting stuck his head outside the viewing area on the canvas and gestured wildly. Not sure who the painting was talking to, the PM stood there with foot tapping. The painting’s hands waving and gesturing, which now included pantomimes of the painting’s figure dying a grisly death via mineral spirits, grew more frenzied as the minutes ticked by.

Little did the painting, the clerk on duty at the Ministry for Magic, nor the PM John Major know that Minister Fudge, along with many other good friends and wealthy campaign contributors were still quite inebriated after the smashing good show of getting Potter’s wand snapped and kicking him out of the wizarding world. He’d been having so much fun this day that he didn’t even worry about Delores’ rant about uppity muggles and something about getting a black hanky or whatever, but instead just put drink after drink into his Undersecretary’s hands until she passed out.

At 11:46pm, the PM jostled the mineral spirits can near the painting. The figure pulled its head back into the viewing area of the painting and said, “He’s not in the office and no one can find him. Can we reschedule? Please?”

The PM knew a typical stall tactic when he saw it. He knew it was going to happen this morning, but had to give the buffoon a chance. He would be alerting the Queen to this. “Cancel the call to your magical buffoon. We no longer need his presence here.”

The PM went out to his aide’s office and picked up a phone, calling the captain of the precinct house. “Captain?” he said after the man picked up the phone on the first ring. “Cut Black loose. Rescind all arrest warrants. It was a case of mistaken identity. Apologize to him for wasting his time. Buy him a beer. Same goes for the Smiths.”

The Captain did just that. Even had one of the lads go out and purchase a couple cases of the good pints, not that ruddy American crap. As Sirius and Remus were getting their wallets and sticks out of the evidence locker, the youngest member of the force came in, and while a beefy fella, he was panting as he carried both cases of booze.

The Captain bade the party farewell and to have a good day. Remus, much to younger officer John Mitchell’s surprise, easily lifted both cases without so much as a grunt of effort. Sirius, Remus and six of the Smiths left through the front doors and got into a waiting stretch limo. The seventh Smith looked at the Captain and officers present.

He said, “No lawsuits. But you should all look into retirement accounts, especially in hard currencies like gold before the housing bubble bursts.”

Mr. Smith left and joined his group. The collected police officers let out a sigh of relief.

Once Mr. Smith got into the waiting stretch limo and the vehicle moved off into a mostly deserted street late in the night (or early in the morning depending on how you viewed these things), a privacy shield came down and both Remus and Sirius saw a goblin sitting there.

“Acceptable, sir?” inquired a Smith.

“Yes. Your ability to scramble immediately once we received word of their arrest is commendable.”

“That is what you pay us for, sir.”

The goblin then addressed Sirius. “I am your current account manager, Knifebait. Let’s get you two the hell out of London and England all together.”

Sirius threw out the window all the teachings his biological parents drilled in him when dealing with goblins and instead relied what James’ mother smacked into his head. “Apologies, Account Manager. How did you know I needed assistance?”

“Your godson advised us as to your legal issues earlier today. We are taking a proactive approach in this regard to see you remain uninjured and well,” Knifebait replied immediately.

“Because I am a large account holder?”

“No,” came another immediate reply.

“Because you are contractually obligated to do it for all account holders?”

“Hell no.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?” Sirius threw out.

Knifebait looked that the wizard as if he were stupid, and given what he knew about the Black family… well, he finally said, “Give me a break.”

Remus was confused. He knew about goblins. “Then why?”

“Because of what young Mr. Potter plans. We plan to stay in his good graces at all costs.”

Moony and Sirius were driven to a back entrance to Diagon, which was closer to the bank. Along the way, Knifebait informed them about Harry’s family funds being withdrawn and going to another branch (Sirius is after all Harry’s legal magical guardian). Sirius of course said to do the same with his funds before he and Remus would go to where Harry was currently staying – in Switzerland! However, everything needed to be done at the bank first.

Numbing hours later, the two men were in a back office at the Bank. Paperwork was filed. In triplicate! Knifebait said, “We have already arranged for non-magical transportation out of England for you. Give our regards to Mr. Potter.”

Knifebait the Account Manager escorted them to the front door of the bank. The two men, now in clever disguises of a hat, scarf, glasses with fake moustache, turned and shook the goblin’s hand.

“Thank you for your time, Account Manager,” Sirius gushed.

Knifebait returned the shake vigorously. “Your patronage is appreciated, Mr. Bark. Have a nice day.”

A patron was coming up the stairs as Mr. Bark and Mr. Byte were exchanging handshakes with, of all things, a goblin! Had they no decorum? Must be muggles.

He overheard the last comment and looked down on the goblin as the two odd looking muggles left. “Have a nice day? It’s night out, for Merlin’s sake.”

Knifebait watched as the two men left via the pub entrance.

The waiting wizard, who was really just waiting to ensure the goblin acknowledged that he was right, was shocked when the goblin said, “Get bent, shit head.”

“You can’t talk to me that way!”

Knifebait looked that the stupid wizard. “Okay. How’s this then?” The goblin cleared his throat and then in a perfect impression of Minister Fudge said, “Get bent, shit head.”

A quick, and by that, quick as a relative team since it was a long muggle ride, but not as long as the Hogwarts Express, Harry was reunited with Sirius and Remus in Europe. Harry was over the moon that the two most important adults in his life were with him and that they had no plans in returning to England. Ever. And to top it off, they were no longer part of the Headmaster’s bird-watching club.

But best of all… they had beer!

**-o0o-**

Late the next morning Molly rapped quietly on the master bedroom door. No answer. She rapped louder. Still no answer. She turned the handle and opened the door, sticking her head in. “Sirius? You there? Breakfast is ready. I made your favorite: cold mush with milk bones,” strained as the atmosphere had become in the house over the last 24 hours, she tried to sound upbeat.

“Sirius? You still asleep in bed?” She came into the room proper and turned on the light. She noticed that Sirius was not in bed. Nor was Remus, not that she was judging mind you. She began searching through the wardrobes, the bathroom, to the balcony door that was left open. “Uh-oh,” she put the pieces together fairly quickly.

Word spread almost as quickly and soon enough Dumbledore had made yet another trip to the ancient house. He went from room to room, finishing up in the master suite. Dumbledore took in the empty room before saying, “This is not good.”


	3. Shafting Pettigrew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets shafted.

**Author’s Note:**  
Okay. Another chapter. This one contains all new material.

A few comments on this story:

There is still more swearing coming your way. You have been warned. Again.

I do this writing for fun, not for profit.

I really like reviews.

Alternate title for this chapter: In which Voldemort gloats

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter series. This is purely for fun.

**-o0o-**

A special 9-am early edition of the Daily Prophet came out much to the amazement of the Wizarding England. On the front page screamed the headline ‘Potter No Longer a Wizard!’ While only the mid-1990’s, magical newspaper did not contain any sort of embedded audio file, so the screaming headline was all silent screaming, but you get the idea.

Many readers were shocked as they read details of the trial only to shake their heads sadly as they read the end result of Harry Potter’s wand being snapped and of him being expelled. They were sad but resigned that the Minister knew what he was doing to make their lives better. After all, Potter had destroyed the last Dark Lord handily but it wasn’t like he was needed to defeat anyone else these days. Paper read, it was then crumpled up and thrown in the trash.

But speaking of the formerly dead, now resurrected Dark Lord, Voldie-what’s-his-name, he too was reading the Daily Prophet, although instead of issuing concerned tsks, or ‘that poor boy’ comments, he instead was chortling along as he read each comment by the members of the Wizengamot. His current right-hand man (so to speak) was one Peter Pettigrew, who was quickly coming to suss what the story was about based on the his master’s gloating comments about young Harry Potter. True, he could have asked Voldemort what made him so happy in the papers (which for Peter was a good view of the Page 3 Girl in one of the muggle papers, and coincidentally was the same thing for Voldie, only his thoughts were to wonder what new things he could get some dark arts to do to her)… but Peter quickly put a stop to that thought. After all, asking usually resulted in a crucio coming his way, so screw that. He’d read the story later after he retrieved the paper from the waste bin.

“Wormtail!” barked his still-chortling master.

“Yes, sire?” the bright-silver right-hand man said in a helpful voice.

“Potter is gone! Bwahahaha!” he laughed manically.

“Potter is dead, milord?” Peter attempted to clarify, but being mentally bright… well… he had a way to go there.

“Crucio! No! Better. Exiled! Bwahahahaha!”

Pettigrew stood by silently for new orders. Crucio me once, shame on you. Crucio twice, shame on me.

“Gather my Death Eaters. We are going to have a party to celebrate.”

“Yes, milord. Who do you want to invite?”

“My Death Eaters, simpleton!”

“Yes, sire. But what of their spouses? Do you want them to attend?”

“Of course, simpleton!”

“How about their kids? Will this be an all-day event or just a few hours? They will have to arrange day-care or sitters. And then what about party favors…”

“Get Narcissa here. She is a party event coordinator, you hack. Floo her now!”

“Couldn’t I just go upstairs and ask her to join us? This is Malfoy Manor after all…”

In an amazing amount of self-control, something he wasn’t known for (at all), Voldie slowly said through clenched teeth, “Go upstairs. Send Mrs. Malfoy down. You then go and get beer. Plenty of beer. Not the crap students drink, but good adult beer. Go now.”

With a curt nod of his head, Pettigrew grabbed his money pouch and went up the basement steps. At the top he went through the warded door and into the kitchen. Sitting at the breakfast table was Narcissa Malfoy who too was reading the paper. She looked up at his clumping through the otherwise silent door.

“What do you want, rat?”

“The boss wants to see you downstairs, Toots.”

“I’ve told you to stop calling me ‘Toots’,” she grumbled as she headed downstairs while he went to the fireplace to take a quick trip to a liquor store owned by a squib. Not that he once ever mentioned this to any of the Death Eaters or the boss himself. No, instead he kept the secret of the squib-owned Booze-emporium to himself. He was a secret-keeper of more than one location, he thought with a little smugness.

“Evenin’ Pete!” yelled the proprietor, one Mick Dundee (no relation).

“It’s morning, Mick,” Peter corrected.

“Not when you haven’t been to sleep in over 36 hours, it ain’t.”

“Right you are, Mick,” Peter had to agree. If only a certain Dark Lord could understand the need for the human body to require sleep on a consistent basis.

“Got in today’s papers, Pete. Page 3 Girl looking sharp,” he winked at Peter.

“Not today, Mick. I’m setting up a party. I’m going to need some cases of beer.”

“How much and what kind?”

“Not sure how many people will be coming,” Peter realized out loud. “Let’s say about 30 blokes and maybe a few spouses. What do you recommend?”

“What’s the budget then?”

Peter looked at his coin pouch. “Um… let’s say about 10 galleons.”

“Really? That’s all?”

“Sorry, Mick. That’s all I’ve got today.”

“No worries, Pete. For that many blokes and birds, I’d recommend these 10 cases of Bud Light. They are still bottles and not cans, so that’s a plus. And it comes to a nice even 6 galleons. Sound good?”

“I’ve never heard of that beer.”

“Yeah, it’s an American brand. Normally I don’t have it, but some of the tourists now and then ask for it. Still, it meets your cost requirements.”

“That it does,” Peter agreed, paying Mick for the beers. He then put them all in in his pouch and headed back to a safe floo alcove and off he went.

Back at Malfoy Manor, the elves were in full gear getting the house ready for a party. Lots of streamers with the words, “Bon Voyage, Farewell, and Get Lost” were in abundance. In the grand ballroom a table had been set up for food and another one for drinks. The food table was nearly full. The drink table didn’t have anything on it, but there was someone standing by the table tapping his foot. Pettigrew didn’t recognize him, but he sure recognized Pettigrew.

“Wormtail,” the new man motioned him over. “You get the beer or fail even that simple task?”

“Master?” Peter’s eyes opened as he looked at the man’s chiseled good looks, dimpled chin, flowing corn-yellow hair (but not too yellow to be taken for pee), and a nose! A bleedin’ nose for Merlin’s sake.

“Yes, yes, it’s me. Glamor charm already. Did. You. Get. The. Beer?”

“Oh, yes, yes, master. Here it is.” Peter then pulled all 10 cases of Bud Light (in the bottle) from his pockets and put them on the table.

“Bud Light? Light?! You brought me beer that Dumbledore’s followers drink?”

The light bulb (so to speak) went off in Peter’s head, indicating that maybe he was a little brighter in thinking that the narrator was aware of. “Oh no, Master. It is the name of the beer, not something that those do-gooder followers of the Light have to drink. It’s just marketing.”

“Are you sure?” Voldie narrowed his eyes at Pettigrew, and his fake eyebrows followed the same gaze.

“Absolutely, Master!” Peter pleaded.

Voldie looked back at all the cases of beer and the names etched on them. Then, “Say, is this muggle beer?”

“Oh, no, Master. I only got the best magical beer to be found,” Peter lied like the good rat he was.

“If that’s the case…” Voldemort started darkly while having his dark gaze return to Wormtail, “then why don’t I recognize the name?”

“Oh, it’s because it is a new American magical brew, Master!”

“American, eh? All right, let’s see it,” Voldie snapped his fingers which got Peter moving.

Peter opened the nearest carton, pulled out the still-cold bottle, and handed it to his Master. Voldemort looked at the bottle and then arched one eye at his minion. Again, the lightbulb went off in Pettigrew’s miniscule mind in the nick of time. Peter stood tall and held out his right hand, then bending his elbow down and putting all his fingers into a claw motion. Then he stopped.

“Better,” Voldemort nodded, and then took the bottle and wedged it under Pettigrew silver forefinger and popped off the bottle cap. He then put the bottle under his nose to get a whiff of the aroma.

During this exchange, about a dozen Death Eaters (minus robes and masks) had made their way to the grand ballroom and saw their master open a bottle of beer and smell it. Figuring that was the queue for the drinking to start, they all grabbed bottles, used Pettigrew as a convenient beer bottle opener and waited.

Moments later, Voldemort’s eyes opened and he said, “To the elimination of Potter! Drink up!” The dozen men (not Pettigrew) all lifted the bottles to their mouths and took a long pull. All but one quickly spat it back out. While the other men were scourigifying their palettes, Voldemort continued to chug the American brew.

Once gone, he pulled the bottle away from his mouth and let out a satisfied burp. “Aaaahhhh, that was good. You know, Wormtail, I don’t know what it is these days why I am always craving beer. It’s like candy to me.” Voldie then looked around at his gang. “Something amiss, boys?”

“Oh, no, Master” Rookwood simpered.

“Then why is there good beer all over the floor?” he pointed out with the characteristic narrowing of his eyes.

Lucius immediately answered before letting the others say something that would get them all killed. “This beer is too sophisticated for our palettes, Master. We were caught by surprise is all.”

“What he said,” Goyle Sr. summed up.

“Hmmm. Too sophisticated you say. Yes, I can see how that would be a problem for you. Get this mess cleaned up. We will have more guests arriving shortly.”

“Yes, master!” the remaining men groveled as Voldemort dropped his bottle and picked up a new one, used the silver hand bottle opener, took a swig and walked away.

As the Death Eaters watched him leave, Lucius immediately rounded on Pettigrew. “This beer is ruddy awful! It tastes like horse piss! Not that I’ve ever tasted that, but this is what I would expect it to taste like!”

“What he said,” Crabbe Sr. summed up.

Pettigrew answered with a snarl, “It was all I could afford since a certain group of someones, namely all of you, have not given me any funds to operate on for the past two months!”

“Be that as it may,” Lucious dismissed the reason, “we can’t serve that American crap to the Wizengamot or the Minister when they arrive shortly. Get some new beer!”

“I want some wine,” whined the Death Eater on Lucius’ left.

“Shut up. I have a massive wine collection next to my torture chamber. But the Dark Lord wants beer, so we will have beer.”

“Then give me some money to get some,” Peter held out his silver hand.

**-o0o-**

Money in hand, Pettigrew floo’d back to his favorite liquor store and got much better beers, or at least something more local since that way he wouldn’t have to pay exorbitant taxes which may or may not have been real, not that Pettigrew ever thought that Mick would steal him blind, even though the same Mick had pawned off some massively out of date Bud Light on the poor silver-handed rat.

Over the next several hours, Pettigrew returned back to Mick’s for more cases of the good beer. Then kegs of the good beer. About 20 minutes later, he returned to use the phone at Mick’s to call in an order for some strippers, which wasn’t as hard as it sounded, however once the wives of the Death Eaters (now getting inebriated), along with the wives of the Wizengamot members (who were also getting inebriated) who noticed those scandalously underdressed women sliding up to their financially well-off husbands as if they were looking to replace them, well, next thing you know those strippers were returned to Mick’s with little memory of how they all managed to acquire some gold coins.

And of course Pettigrew was sent out again to purchase some comfort food for said wives who amazingly had never tasted Doritos, Cheetos, Seabrook Potato Crisps, Slim Jims, and many other bad-for-you convenience store items. Pettigrew had purchased a sampling of these from the store but was back within five minutes to buy out the store’s entire inventory.

**-o0o-**

It was mid-afternoon and Pettigrew wanted a nap. He had been at Mick’s so much today that half the store had been sold to him. He wanted a beer so much. Something to slake the thirst of being a glorified errand boy. He didn’t want to go back out to fetch something.

It seemed that the gods were smiling on Pettigrew at that moment as he was about to get his wish.

Upon this latest return to the party, and after dropping off the food items on the table which were quickly grabbed by elves who popped away with them to the home library were all the ladies were holed up bashing their husbands over quarts of Haggen-Dazs, he began to mingle with the guests.

Peter passed by two snobs trying to out-snob one another.

“I say, Clarence, did you see Potter’s eyes light up when he saw he was on trial this morning?” one Wizengamot member bragged to his peer with just the right amount of liquor smell on his breath (which in this case was quite a lot). “It was all I could do not to reprimand him for losing control of himself. That is not how a member or future member should comport themselves when dealing with the Wizengamot.”

“Absolutely, Lester. Why if I hadn’t agreed to that scathing report put forth by Cornelius, I would have tried to get him ousted myself just for his lack of composure during the proceedings. I say, have you tried any of that American beverage Coors?”

“Indeed! What will those magicals across the pond do next, eh?”

“Well if the best thing their magic can do is to only make a beverage, it’s a good thing they have us to look out for all the comings and going, going, going-ons in the world, eh?”

“Right you are! Just like all the other countries! You there! Bottle opener statue guy, come over here and bring another beverage with you! Oh wait, I have a beverage. Let me open it…”

As had happened well over 100 times that day, Peter moved his right hand to a claw position and allowed the drunk Wizengamot members to open their newly acquired bottles from the ever-attentive elves from his hand. And like each and every time, the bottle sprayed him with that intoxicating smell of beer. Not that he was allowed to taste any during this party. Oh no. He had quickly been told that he was to be the party’s designated Apparater, so no drinking for him.

“My day can’t get any worse,” Peter grumbled as another drunken Wizengamot member attempted to pry a bottle cap off using Peter’s eyebrows whereupon Peter directed the seemingly self-entitled wizard down to his right hand and the cap then came off.

Too bad for Peter that Fate was taking an active hand in his case. And, indeed, his day could get much worse. And did.

In fact, it was only moments later where Peter was once again accosted by a drunken politician. He sorely wanted to tell the sot to take it somewhere else, but held his tongue before his Master ripped it out of his body and handed it back to him, prior to crucio’ing him and then AK’ing him. Besides… it was the Minister for Magic.

“Hey, hey, hey, statue guy with the realistic hair,” the Minister put his hand not holding a bottle over Pettigrew’s shoulder. “You know,” the Minister started through slightly foggy eyelids, “you remind me a little of… hmmmm, it’s on the tip of my tongue…”

“Peter Pettigrew?” offered one of the assembled drunks.

“No! He’s too ugly for that. Pettigrew looked better off when he died. You know, I think you remind me of Gilderoy Lockhart. The jerk. You know he borrowed some money from me a long time ago and never paid it back. That jerk.”

“Ah, Minister, are you enjoying the party,” another person with slightly foggy eyelids said. Of course, this person was wearing a glamour of a blondish haired, chiseled face upper crust type. Well, it started out that way. Now it was more of a “smearing” blondish haired chiseled face person as Voldie’s iron control of the face was slipping the more intoxicated he got.

“Hey! It’s Lucius’ older brother, Kr…, no, Jo..., no, Damien! That’s it!”

“Close enough, Minister. Do you like this statue of Pettigrew?”

“I thought it was Lockhart!” the Minister replied angrily. “You said you were Lockhart! Where’s my money?!” A beer bottle was brandished at Pettigrew who still stayed in “character”.

“No, I can assure you, Minister that this is Pettigrew and not Lockhart. It’s actually an enchanted statue we made look like what Pettigrew should look like now. He’s instructed to mingle with the guests and offer his hand to help.”

One of the Minister’s eyes opened slightly. “Help? Help how?”

“Oh, like this.” Voldie pulled an unopened Bud out of his robe pocket and snapped his finger towards Pettigrew. Que given, Pettigrew lifted and clawed his right hand for Voldie to use as a bottle opener.

The Minister’s eyes opened at that. “That is so cool! I wondered how you got these magical caps off earlier, and now I know! What does he do with the empties?”

Voldemort thought about that for a few seconds. “Good… burp… question. I hadn’t thought of that. Hmmm, I know! Mutter-mumble, zimba-zoomba.”

Pettigrew felt something happen to him, but wasn’t sure what.

To the Minister, Voldemort instructed, “Okay. Hit him over the head with your bottle. It won’t break his head now.”

“Heh-heh. Okay.”

Smash! Fudge broke a bottle over Pettigrew head. It smashed into a lot of little teeny tiny pieces. True to his word, Pettigrew’s head didn’t break. There was no blood.

But nothing was said about the pain. Pettigrew had an instant migraine. A migraine that would intensify as many more ministry workers, Wizengamot members, even that toad, Umbridge broke bottle after bottle over his head, all having a grand old time doing it for hours on end. Although she kept muttering something about uppity muggles every time she broke a bottle over his head.

After the first bottle broke over Pettigrew’s face, and his eyes squeezed shut to alleviate the massive amount of pain he was suddenly in, Voldie knew he had to do something. So he quickly cast another oh-not-so-obvious spell at the rat whose eyes snapped open and his visage changed to that of a grinning loon, which actually made him look less homicidal, and also invited more and more party goes to smash bottles over his head. None of them could hear his mental anguish of not being able to change his facial structure at the moment, nor his pleading of everyone to stop before his brain burst from his head. Well, one of them could. But the current Dark Lord had left Wormtail to the enjoyment of the drunks while he went in search of another Bud Light.

Peter summed up the next 9 hours of drinking and smashing bottles over his head as: Why did Fate have it in for him?

**-o0o-**

Well after midnight, and long after the wives of the snoring drunks littering the grand ballroom had left to go home, Peter performed his next duty. He was the designated Apparater which meant he had to apparate all the sleeping drunks back to their homes.

There were approximately 65 men who he had to send home. The last one had passed out just minutes earlier which released the spell on his face. Now that he could move his entire body, mouth included, he decided to send them all home via floo. That was a mistake he learned the hard way on his first attempt. Turns out the missus was not happy with her Oliver Buckfield, no thank you. She sealed the floo. What did this mean? It meant Pettigrew threw some powder in the fire, yelled out Oliver’s home address and chucked him into the green flames. Almost immediately Oliver came flinging back at Pettigrew who managed to not duck in time and instead caught the overweight drunk with his face.

Moment later, Peter came to and rolled the drunk off of him. Unfortunately, the drunk woke up, noticed where he was and what was nearby, took a deep breath and then promptly ralphed all over the Pettigrew life-like statue.

A quick cleaning spell later, Pettigrew grabbed Oliver Buckfield and apparated him to his front door. He did not have to ring the doorbell or knock on the door as it immediately opened to show a very upset Mrs. Buckfield who was also holding a wand that had a red light lighting up on the tip. ‘Feet don’t fail me now!’ Peter thought as he dropped the drunk and hightailed it out of there before he got caught up in any domestic violence. Well, any violence he didn’t create that is.

Safely behind a tree wide enough to hide behind, Peter concentrated and off he popped back to the Malfoy lair. He started with 65 drunks. Take away 1 Dark Lord staying at the Malfoys, 1 Lucius as it was his house, and 1 delivery: that left 62 more to deliver. Jeez, that was going to take until the morning.

Peter quickly got into a routine. Pick up drunk package. Apparate to house. Get barfed on every single fucking time (so thank YOU, Fate!). Ring the doorbell and run like hell before he got cursed, hexed, jinxed, or worse, saddled with explaining to a crying wife why her husband didn’t love her anymore while she consumed more ice cream.

Of the 63 men he had to deliver home, he was hexed, jinxed and cursed 62 times. He quickly quit caring how the spells were classified, instead concentrating on stopping the bleeding, the boils, the withering darkness climbing up his nose, his hair trying to kill him, and even a few whomping willow seedlings trying to strangle him when he crossed a ward line. The screaming he heard was sometimes his own when trying to put out fires, warming up frozen body parts (his own), and again, stopping the bleeding. But usually the screaming he heard was from the drunk package’s family – wives usually, but more often than he thought there were sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, cousins, dogs, cats, grandparents, and in two instances both wives and mistresses at the same time, plus in one instance it was a wife plus her boyfriend screaming at the drunk package. And as Peter expected, sending some interesting light colors his way, dammit!

Nearing sunrise, Peter was finally ready to tackle the last two men on the floor. One was Lucius and he knew he could have gotten an elf to move the man earlier, in fact, much, much earlier. But he didn’t like the blonde jerk any more than his wife did. Still, it was time to get the elves to move him since he was on top of the boss.

Elves came and removed the blotto Malfoy senior. Pettigrew then got a good view of the Master. He was face down on the floor, snoring good and loud for someone with no nose. Pettigrew knew better than to use any magic on the Master. That was a sure fire way to wake him up and get a crucio for his trouble. Peter managed to lift the snoring body and drag it to the basement door and get him down the stairs with only a minimal amount of hits to the head (4 for Voldie and 2 for Pettigrew).

“Peter?” a muffled voice said.

Peter looked up from the floor where he had been taking in some deep breaths to stop his latest migraine. “Yes, milord?”

“You’re okay, you know that?”

“I am, milord? Thank you for saying that.”

“You’re my friend, right?”

“Uh, yes, milord?”

“Come here. I want to tell my buddy something.”

“Yes, milord?” Peter said as he helped his Master to his feet.

“You’re… you’re…”

“Yes, milord?”

“BLLLAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!”

Peter, who had been ralphed on all bloody night, nearly tossed his cookies right then and there. Dark Lord puke was nasty. Naturally.

The Dark Master, his stomach now empty, promptly passed out again. A soggy Pettigrew pulled out his wand to clean himself and then had a thought. A few minutes later he was done cleaning himself and had put the Dark Lord into his Dark Lord Bedchamber. Pettigrew then left Malfoy manor and headed for Gringotts.

He quickly ran up the steps and went to the seldom-used Other Bank Needs window. Once there, he and the teller haggled for a few minutes but Peter eventually got what he was looking for. He had remembered an older story from his childhood where the bottom line was: everything magical was useful, and worth money. And he figured that Dark Lord puke was worth something. In fact, all three bottles of it was worth 5 galleons. Time to get a drink!

**-o0o-**

The goblins were once a true warrior race. After the Great Defeat almost 892 years earlier, they moved into commerce and especially banking. That in no way meant they were lazy, pushovers, or lacking with the long view. They were still mercenaries, only they chose to do their killing on paper with numbers and figures. Let the dumb bastards in “charge” of the wizarding world have their fun now. It would all come back to them at the end.

It was this type of mercenary-thinking that led the magical buyer of London’s Gringotts to send the container of magical upchuck to the Zurich branch. It was there that an evaluator confirmed the magical presence of something, but it was only 1/7th of what it should have been.

An adjuster was brought in who then ordered several more tests. These tests ultimately revealed that the puke belonged to someone related to the Gaunt family vault. The same vault which had been confiscated due to non-payments of a loan to the bank, and which they were eager to get the funds owed to them by a surviving member of the Gaunt family. The odd thing was, it was only 1/7th as strong as it should have been.

The goblins brought in a researcher at that point who looked into similar situations and days later informed the bank manager of how this Gaunt family member had severed his soul 7 times. This alarmed the management to no end, and word went out for an assessment team.


	4. Shafting Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets the shaft this time

**Author’s notes:**  
Quite a bit of this chapter is from Lady Foxfire’s original. Very little was changed from her original, but I did add some new scenes and characterizations. Hope you like them.

There is more swearing here. As always, you have been warned.

 **Second Author’s note:**  
After posting the last chapter, I had an anonymous reviewer leave a negative comment citing their displeasure of that chapter. I would ask that any reader who is not happy with a chapter enough to leave a message at least give me an idea of why they didn’t like it. I am always up for criticism. I may not agree with it, but I do think you have the right to leave it since this is being published on a public forum. I like getting criticism as I am always looking for ways to improve my writing. Was my writing short and off-topic? Was it rambling? Was it just too ruddy weird? (I’ve actually gotten that one before.) In any event, what was the issue? I do believe that this negative comment dealt with the content itself and not the mechanics, but that is just a guess. If it was the content, allow me to be perfectly clear at this point: this is a crack fic. It is all humor. There is no drama. Sometimes there is action, but mostly it is humor. Think of it as getting a pie thrown in your face by one of the 3 Stooges from the 1930’s for example. This is not the Greatest Story Ever Told. Not even close. It is a crack fic. Nothing more.

Now as for my choice of scenes, character interpretations and any other additions… that is creativity at work. I did not want to just use a narrow scope of existing characters, settings, and plots to add a few new story chapters and say this work was entirely my own. I want to heavily expand on what was written and find new ways to create laughter. For me I enjoy writing. And the type of writing I enjoy is comedy. And like many comics around now and in years past, I look for things that are a little off-kilter. I like the little things. The out-of-the-limelight things people don’t consider but ultimately add up to something big. Something one person may miss but another may pick up on. And to me, this is certainly brought to life with cause-and-effect.

Thank you all for reading as far as you have and I hope to keep entertaining you for a while longer yet. And now, let’s get into this chapter.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series. This is purely for fun.

**-o0o-**

Almost three weeks had passed since that day the Wizengamot found Harry Potter guilty and snapped his wand. During that time, ministry officials were still trying to find a way to get that uppity muggle Prime Minister to hand over Black. Of course, this was several days after he had been caught and Delores had finally gotten sober enough to let her Cornelius know that Black was in custody somewhere. Cornelius then alerted the painting in the PM’s office to announce his presence to the muggle.

Strangely enough, the painting did not just bow its head and go about its duty of announcing the Minister for Magic to the muggle, but instead it immediately stated that the Prime Minister was currently unavailable. Thinking nothing of it, he instructed the painting to notify him when the PM was available. After several days of no update, Minister Fudge queried the painting again and was immediately informed the PM was still unavailable.

It took a few days longer before Minister Fudge found out that the Prime Minister was actually in his office, but blocking his calls. His crack investigative team found that the PM was regularly seen coming and going to his office. Of course, they found this out by reading a paper, but they never turned down an official reason to investigate London and its pubs. They never did find out how the PM got the painting to block Minister Fudge’s calls. If they had simply asked the painting, they might have gotten a clue from investigating its clothes. The painting’s colors were all vibrant and period-specific, however… there was a slight clear spot in the lower right corner of the painting’s elbow, almost as if it were erased.

And, of course, they never thought to ask the maintenance workers the PM’s office employed why they had to leave a can of mineral spirits in the PM’s office permanently.

Calls unanswered, Minister Fudge ordered his Undersecretary back to that muggle’s office and get Black, and not to take no for an answer. Unfortunately the first time she tried it after getting sober, she and the Auror side-apparating her went off-course and she ended up in a pile of garbage. The second time she ended up in a pile of dog poo. The third time they apparated near the office and attempted to stealthily get inside, only to fall victim of Umbridge’s complete lack of ability to be stealthy. She and Auror Michael Phelps (no relation) were arrested, pictures taken, and then broken out of jail later that night with no clues how they got out. It made the news. Her hideous face, the picture showed her scowling, was ridiculed mercilessly.

Suffice to say, Black was never handed over as the magicals couldn’t get their magical mitts on the PM and force him to hand Black over.

As for Potter, Minister Fudge had pushed thoughts of that boy aside. It wasn’t like he had ever done anything for the Minister. Except cause problems. No, the wizarding world was much better off without Potter here. Why, his good friend Lucius Malfoy agreed whole hardily with him when they brought the idea up months ago.

The Minister was not the only one thinking of young Harry Potter. He was being remembered fondly by his friends. He was being remembered as someone that needed to be found as quickly as possible by Albus Dumbledore, and not just because the poor boy had been expelled from school. Oh no, he was being hunted because of a prophecy. One which Albus fully believed in, and had made plans to ensure Harry carried out. One which meant that Harry really didn’t need schooling since he wouldn’t be alive at the end anyway.

So Dumbledore had his kidnapping agents searching wizard communities and the Muggle world for Harry with not even a rumor of his location for their efforts. No one ever considered expanding their search parameters outside the United Kingdom. After all, if they wouldn’t leave that environment, why consider someone else would want to leave it.

But as they say time stops for no man or wizard and it was soon the first of September.

**-o0o-**

“Draco,” Theodore Nott pointed to the Gryffindor table as they sat down prior to the sorting. “Look at Granger and Weasley. Don’t they look miserable without Potter’s protection?”

Draco Malfoy, the current heir of both Malfoy and Black fortunes, look at the other table and smirked. “Indeed they do, Theo. This is going to be a fun year teaching those traitors and mudbloods a lesson in pureblood supremacy.”

“Are you going to do to them what you did to Potter?” Tracy said.

“I thought the Ministry snapped his wand and expelled him,” Justin Forbisher, a 3rd year said in confusion, still trying to figure out what those 5th years meant.

“They did,” Draco said magnanimously. “But it was my cunning plan that started everything. And now he is gone. And those Gryfindorks are left without a leader. Like sambs to the lawter.”

Justin, his head now hurting from listing to this 5th year, said, “You mean ‘like lambs to the slaughter,’ right?”

“That’s what I said,” Draco agreed and moved on from that annoying 3rd year.

Justin was only a 3rd year student, and someone that the sorting hat stated should be in Slytherin, but if that meant anything, then the best thing for him was to sever ties with those 5th year morons as quickly as possible. He was not going out for Quidditch team tryouts anytime soon. Not if that blond simpleton was on the team.

Little did he know, his wish was about to come true.

**-o0o-**

Dumbledore stood before the students in the Great Hall having been sorted and fed as he made his yearly speech.

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door.”

Mr. Filch gave his evil eye to all he could. But mostly, he let his evil gaze fall on those two red-headed twin terrors sitting at the Gryffindor table.

Dumbledore continued, “We have two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of the Magical Creatures lessons. We are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

The students applauded politely to the announcements.

A few seconds after the half-hearted applause started, Dumbledore said, “Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the –

“Hem, Hem.”

Dumbledore stopped midway through his announcement, and turning he looked down at the seat in which Professor Umbridge sat.

The woman, who between her short stature, wide girth and bulging eyes resembled more of a toad than a human female, rose to her feet and looked out upon the students of Hogwarts with an oily smile.

“Thank you Headmaster for those kind words of welcome,” she said in a high-pitched voice that one would expect to hear from a woman who was trying to sound much younger than her age. “Well it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say! And to see such happy little faces looking back at me! I am very much looking forwards to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!”

Umbridge repeated the “Hem, Hem” sound she had used early to interrupt Dumbledore before continuing on with her speech. “The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you…”

Whatever Umbridge intended to say next was interrupted when the massive doors of the Great Hall swung open with such force that the wall they hit vibrated afterwards.

Two squads of goblins in full armor marched in. Charlie Nelson, 6th year Ravenclaw, half wondered why a race dedicated to banking needed to retain armor, and why that armor looked so well-maintained as well as appeared so brutal looking. Almost as if they enjoyed causing their enemy to shit their shorts when they saw him. Little did Charlie know but his distant non-magical cousin living in the United States enjoyed the same reaction when he met with people and told them he worked for the Internal Revenue Service.

“How dare you enter here and interrupt me you… you…” Umbridge sputtered as her face grew red in anger.

Headmaster Dumbledore rose to feet and with a touch of wandless magic forced Umbridge back into her chair. “Greeting dear goblins,” he said with the ease of an experienced politician. “May I inquire as to the reason behind your visit to our school?”

“Gringotts business, Dumbledore, with the approval of your Ministry,” a goblin wearing a helmet in the shape of a skull replied. “We’re here to retrieve some wayward animals for their master.”

Dumbledore brow furrowed. “What animals?” he asked. “The only animals we have here belong to the students and those that are used in Care of the Magical Creatures lessons.”

“I do not speak of the children’s pets or those animals you use in training,” the goblin stated. “These beasts are some that have strayed away from their new master’s keep since his regent failed his duty to maintain his house.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said in a tone that said he really did not understand. “Will you need help in retrieving these animals?”

The goblin shook his head. “No. No, that will not be necessary. My team is well trained in capturing these beasts even if we haven’t had the opportunity to do so in many years.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore replied with a nod of his head in acceptance. “How long do you believe it will take to collect these animals?”

“Not long,” the goblin answered with a toothy smile. “In fact if we could begin now we should be able to leave your school within the hour.”

Dumbledore nodded his head in approval.

The goblin’s toothy smile became more menacing as he signaled his team to bring up an old battered crate similar to the crate used to store the different balls used in Quidditch. The goblin in charge kicked open the crate and out flew a number of rust colored collars. The collars circled around the goblins for a moment before zipping off in all directions.

Panicked screams soon filled the air.

“Get it off! Get it off!” one of the 7th year girls in Hufflepuff screamed as she tugged at the collar encircling her throat.

The professors and older students grabbed their wands as the younger students dove out of the way if a collar came too close for comfort.

“What is the meaning of this?” Dumbledore demanded as he witnessed Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle being collared, along with several others from that end of the Slytherin table. And there were many more collars flying around looking for a neck to snare.

The goblin in charge looked at Dumbledore with an expression of satisfaction. “We’re collecting the wayward animals as you agreed we could.”

“These are children, not animals!” Dumbledore snapped.

“Not according to wizard law,” the goblin answered simply.

“What… what do you mean?” McGonagall demanded as she stood and watched a collar encircle Snape’s throat.

“The Act of 1522, which states that all livestock and chattel must be branded with their owner’s mark,” the goblin replied.

“And what does this have to do with what you’re doing here?” Dumbledore snarled.

The goblin sighed. “That animal,” the goblin pointed at Snape, “is branded with his former owner’s mark. The same Act also declares that the offspring of marked animals are the property of their parents’ owners.”

“I am not an animal,” Snape declared as he aimed his wand at the goblin in charge only to have a surprised look on his face when nothing happened when he tried to cast a spell.

The goblin snorted. “You are also not a pureblood technically. But you were magically adopted into a pureblood family when you became that little snot’s godfather. As is, no freeman would willingly allow himself to be branded like a beast.”

“Severus was cleared of all charges,” Dumbledore pointed out.

The goblin shrugged his shoulders. “And this is important, why?”

“Because Snape is an innocent man,” Dumbledore replied.

“As are Malfoy, Nott and a number of other people who paid for their freedom,” the goblin countered, “but that doesn’t mean they’re not chattel. And Gringotts has been asked to collect the new owner’s animals… chattels… for a fee of course.”

“When my father hears what you’ve done…” Draco snarled as he stalked over to the goblin with the princely aired he was known for.

The goblin snorted as he signaled his men to herd the collared witches and wizards into a manageable group. “What makes you think he doesn’t already know?”

Draco stared at the goblin in shock.

**-o0o-**

What young Draco Malfoy did not know was that three days earlier a meeting was held in the Forbidden Forest, the meeting participants never triggering any of the Hogwarts vaunted wards, nor would they. In a clearing, a short individual approached a much, much larger person.

“Goblin,” the larger of the two people said, acknowledging the shorter individual.

“Centaur,” the goblin acknowledged the much larger person.

“Your kind has not been in the forest for a long time.”

“True. Banking has kept us busy.”

“What do you want?” the large centaur inquired politely. Mars may or may not have been bright (it was overcast), but it was a stupid centaur that foolishly angered goblins.

“Retrieval work. This is a large operation. Interested?”

“I don’t remember the last time centaurs and goblins worked a retrieval job,” the centaur started.

“It was 542 years ago. Gringotts received a contract from a wizard to hunt down his muggles. Your and my ancestors worked together for three days hunting them.”

The centaur looked at the goblin warily. “I heard that hunting or retrieving muggles was outlawed by man.”

“That is correct,” the goblin agreed. “However, we are not hunting for those. We are hunting the so-called purebloods.”

“Tell me more,” the centaur lowered himself to talk easier with the goblin.

The goblin did tell the centaur more, and word quickly spread throughout the forest. Centaurs gathered and teams were chosen. And while voices were raised indicating some were a little skittish for causing this kind of ruckus, that nervousness went away when the goblin representative cited the 873-year-old centaur treaty and what happened to ensure the centaurs were restricted to that forest instead of being allowed to go wherever they wanted like it was once allowed. Of course, that treaty had been enforced by purebloods.

And so the goblin informed his superiors of the successful meeting and immediately orders went out to assemble the warriors at the forest. They met with the centaurs, all broke into teams and off they went on September 1st, after the Hogwarts Express had pulled away from the station.

It was around noon that each team began retrieving their chattel targets. Two goblins and two centaurs were tasked with retrieving those Malfoys not on the Hogwarts Express.

Malfoy Manor was an impressive home. It was situated in the countryside, well away from their neighbors. It was a large home with many bedrooms, many bathrooms, a grand entrance, a huge dining hall, and a ballroom. The furniture looked to be in pristine shape thanks to magic. The paintings all showed aloof faces peering down on anyone in the rooms. There was a massive kitchen followed by an even more massive pantry.

The Malfoys had stables, breeding stock, house elves, gardens, and even a pool. It had the most impressive wards that gold could buy. Those wards would take weeks to bring down by teams of wardbreakers working constant shifts, and even if they came down, it would take the lives of many of those wardbreakers. In all, Malfoy Manor reeked of opulence, wealth, and richness. Smug in the belief that they were safe from anything and anyone, Lucius and Narcissa decided to have lunch outside on such a wonderful day.

Wards are a fickle thing. Tied to a place or object, it still required a mind to direct them. A mind that was capable of not only knowing the difference of an intent ward indicating that the person coming up the walkway meant to kill them vs. just delivering a package, to an alert ward indicating that someone had just entered the edge of a ward. Kids had terrible control. Old timers had terrible control. Lucius was neither young nor old. He was in the prime of his life – he told everyone that repeatedly. In the prime of his life he may be, but his mind was never that sharp. Otherwise, why would he have squandered his life, his wife’s life, and his child’s life for a madman?

Still, Lucius controlled the wards and knew how to differentiate between an ill-intent and an alert ward. However, he never once understood the limitations of wards. Limitations that the goblins knew full well since they had been contracted to install them.

At the edge of the property goblins Chokehim and Maimhim looked at the flat wardstone. A muggle would have simply seen a rock. The goblins noticed more than that. Chokehim reached down and flipped the stone over, and, well, that was all it took to cut power to the wards from the Ley lines. Lucius would have been most upset had he realized that goblins had always retained the ability to flip ward stones when they set the wards up. But wizards never asked and the goblins never offered the information that they retained that ability primarily in case they needed to collect on a debt. Or in this case which was to retrieve wayward chattel.

Chokehim and Maimhim then returned to the road going to the Manor. They pulled a huge box behind them almost effortlessly. Approaching the house, Lucius and Narcissa watched their progress. An elf intercepted the goblins halfway up, was informed that the goblins had been employed to deliver this package to the Malfoy estate. They believed it was a statue or something, and all they had to do was deliver it to the Most Honorable Lucius Malfoy and his wife, Narcissa Malfoy.

The elf popped back to the lord of the manor and informed him what the goblins had said. Annoyed, Lucius went to meet the goblins at the front door, making sure to let them wait a few minutes before opening the door. His wife behind him, they saw the massive wooden crate the goblins had pulled up from the property line.

“Sign here,” Maimhim indicated a clipboard with a document on it.

“Not until I see what is in the box,” Lucius said imperiously.

“Very well,” Maimhim agreed. He and Chokehim pulled crowbars out and opened the front of the crate. Inside the crate were two very realistic centaurs.

“Nice workmanship on the centaurs,” Lucius nodded in approval.

“Thanks,” Haze the centaur answered before shooting an arrow through the front door and into the kitchen on the far side of the house.

“What?” Narcissa said.

Lucius had the same word on his lips but it never came out as Graze the centaur punched him in the face. Lucius weighed about 250 pounds give or take. Graze weighed about 1300 pounds give or take. It was no contest. Lucius went down like a heap of useless Death Eaters.

“One!” Graze shouted.

Narcissa went for her wand but it was shot out of her hand by Haze. Looking first at the centaur and then behind her at the wand impaled by an arrow which was residing in the front door of the manor, she never noticed the two goblins grab additional retrieval tools from the crate and double-up (Chokehim jumped onto Maimhim’s shoulders). Narcissa was still deciding what to do since the centaurs had not left the confines of the crate yet. She never noticed that the goblins were behind her, and one had a sap in his hand.

Moments later she went down like her useless husband.

“Two!” Maimhim shouted.

“Tag ‘em and crate ‘em. I’ll secure the house until the survey team shows.”

No, Draco never did find out how his parents were taken by a Retrieval team. Nor did he ever see what was written on the document tied to an arrow shot by the first centaur which read: Official Chattel Retrieval Business.

**-o0o-**

Meanwhile, back at Hogwarts….

“Your parents, your siblings, and any extended family members have already been collected and taken to the holding pens, where you will soon join them,” the goblin addressed the group of collared students. “Your new owner asked that those of you who attended Hogwarts be the last collected. He thought that witnessing such an event might sway others from following the same path as your parents.”

“The Ministry won’t permit this!” Umbridge declared as she finally snapped out of the shock she had been in and stood up, her fists visible as she shook in rage.

The goblin pulled out a document from a pocket hidden on his armor. “I believe this says I have permission to collect these… chattel,” he said as he offered the document to Umbridge who snatched it from his hand. “Signed by Minister Fudge himself just this morning.”

“It’s clearly a fake,” Umbridge snapped as she thrust the document back at the goblin in charge only to have Dumbledore immediately take it from her.

Dumbledore read the document over, silently and wandlessly checking the magic behind the signatures before sighing wearily. “This document is real,” he said solemnly before rolling it up and handing it back to the goblin. “What will be their fate?” he indicated the children.

“That is up to their owner,” the goblin replied as he tucked the document away.

“And who is their owner,” McGonagall demanded saying the last word with distaste.

“Harry Potter,” the goblin stated simply.

“This is wrong!”

All eyes turned to the Gryffindor table where Hermione stood with righteous determination. “Slavery was outlawed in 1833 when Parliament passed the Slavery Abolition Act,” she declared.

“And two years later, the Wizengamot passed the Freeman Act, which made it illegal for a witch, wizard or a squib to own a Muggle, a muggle-born or Half-Blood,” the goblin stated. “The Act makes no mention of owning a Pureblood since they believed no Pureblood would ever allow themselves to be marked as a slave.”

“Pride go-eth before a fall,” Professor Flitwick said softly.

“That is often the case with witches and wizards,” the goblin returned. “Which brings up another matter.”

Dumbledore took an uneasy breath before asking, “And what matter is that?”

“Hogwarts,” the goblin said simply. “The Founders’ heir has come to the conclusion that the school has become a place that teaches hate and bigotry and is therefore closing the school. Effective immediately.”

“They have no right to close Hogwarts!” Umbridge declared. “The Ministry won’t allow it.”

“In this case, the Ministry has no say in this matter. As was written in the by-laws, if there was ever a time when the heirs felt that Hogwarts had fallen away from its duty then the heirs had the right to close the school,” the goblin stated.

“My family can trace our linage back to Helga Hufflepuff,” Madam Sprout said proudly. “And I know no one in my family has ever suggested that Hogwarts has become what you claim it is.”

The goblin calmly nodded his head in acceptance of Madam Sprout’s statement. However, he explained, “I understand what you are saying. Of course none of that matters since you and your family are unofficial heirs.”

“What?!” Madam Sprout sputtered. “I can show you proof of my lineage.”

“That may be true, madam, but none of your line has approached Gringotts and asked to be tested to discover your inheritance,” the goblin explained. “Of course that is a moot point now that there is an official heir to the Founders.”

“And who is this heir,” McGonagall asks.

“Why Harry Potter, of course,” the goblin replied smugly.

“I was right! Potter really is the Heir to Slytherin!” someone shouted out from among the non-collared students.

The goblin turned to face the students. “Actually Salazar Slytherin never fathered or adopted any children.”

“But the Dark Lord…” Draco sputtered from among the other collared children. “He’s the heir of Slytherin.”

“Your so-called Dark Lord was born from Slytherin’s half-brother, Sausage. Born to Salazar Slytherin’s father and a muggle tavern wench named Broomgilda,” the goblin explained.

“No! You’re wrong,” Draco protested in the defense of his beliefs. “He must have fathered a child after he left Hogwarts.”

“He never left Hogwarts. The other Founders turned on him and killed him when he became a threat to the school and its children,” the goblin said. “In fact it was in this very room in which he died. His remains were buried someplace in a forest close to the school.”

The goblin turned back to Dumbledore and the other professors. “You have 72 hours to leave Hogwarts. Take only your possessions. If anything is removed that belongs to the school which includes books, potion ingredient and medical supplies, all parties involved will be charged with theft and punished to the strictest letter of the law.”

“But the students,” McGonagall started.

“Mr. Potter has already agreed to refund the tuition for this school to the parents that have already paid,” the goblin stated. “In addition Mr. Potter has been in contact with other magical schools and they have agreed to accept the students. Of course they all won’t be attending one school but split up among those that would accept them.”

“But this is my last year at Hogwarts! I don’t want to go someplace else!” someone shouted from among the students.

The goblin turned around. “And that is not Mr. Potter’s or my concern. If you want someone to blame for allowing Hogwarts to become corrupt then I suggest you look to the staff of Hogwarts, the Ministry, your own parents and finally at yourself. Think about how many times you have witnessed a fellow student torment a younger student; how many times they have been seriously harmed. Look at the different Houses you have been separated into and how they have caused fighting among siblings and childhood friends. How many times fighting between houses led to fighting between families outside of school. No, Hogwarts teaches hatred and then that hatred is bottle-fed to the next generation. It is time this ends. This sentiment comes directly from Mr. Potter.”

“Did young Mr. Potter have any other sentiment for Hogwarts?” a somewhat stunned Headmaster queried.

“As a matter of fact, he did. He wanted everyone to know that while he considered this school his real home, and those that knew him to be his real family, that the rest of the student body and all of the staff should remember the following words.” The goblin then pulled out a scroll and unrolled it. He looked up at all the waiting faces. “Fuck you.”

And with that the goblin motioned the rest of the goblins to walk out of the Great Hall, pushing and dragging their prisoners with them. “Remember! You now have less than 72 hours to get out!”

**-o0o-**

The Hogwarts students of those who were marked with Dark Lord’s brand had been collared and removed from the school as dinner finished earlier that evening. They had been quickly walked to the ward perimeter and port-keyed to a large conference room. Once in the room, Snape was escorted to another room and the rest of the students had their collars removed.

The students were unsure what was to happen next, confused by the strange metal chairs even if they didn’t say it, but more than anything, were relieved to see other members of their family (siblings and cousins) already there in the weird metal chairs. Family members rushed to one another, comforted each other as best they could, and all asked the same question: What the hell was going on?

“Sit down,” one of the goblin guards ordered, pointing at the metal chairs. Those children who weren’t old enough to have started Hogwarts yet clung to their older brothers and sisters.

“What’s going on? Where is mummy and daddy?’ one of the youngest of the children whispered to his older brother.

“Shhhh, you need to be quiet,” the older brother whispered.

“Where’s mummy? I want mummy!” the little one demanded.

The older brother picked up his little brother and hugged him. “I know. I want mummy and daddy too.”

It was a few minutes after the children had taken their seats that a man dressed in a muggle suit walked in. Sitting his briefcase on the table at the front of the room, he looked over the children before saying. “I am Adam Pierson. And I am the only chance of freedom you will ever have.”

A few of the children looked upon Mr. Pierson with hope while other dismissed him and his words.

“To begin with I will explain the circumstances that led to you being here,” Mr. Pierson said as he opened his briefcase and removed dozens of manila folders. “In the mid to late 1970’s, your parents or other head of your family line swore allegiance to one Tom Marvolo Riddle, who is better known as Lord Voldemort. Since he was promoting a pureblood dogma that your family heads found appealing, he then took that allegiance one step further. In order to join Mr. Riddle’s little group of Death Eaters, your parent, parents, or other family head agreed to be marked with his symbol known as the Dark Mark.

“This Dark Mark is also known as branding in the court of law. Why is this important? Under the Wizard Act of 1522, this signifies that they became his property to be used as he wished. Anyone who agreed to wed someone branded with Riddle’s symbol automatically became Riddle’s property, as did any children born from the relationship.

“Once passed in 1522, this Act was enforced on several wizarding families by other wizards of the time. Slavery was then discussed and argued in the Wizengamot for centuries. The Wizard Act of 1724 ensured that purebloods cannot own other purebloods. This did not effect the other slave cases at that time. In 1833, the British Parliament passed the Slavery Abolition Act which affected all British subjects. However, due to the Wizengamot’s separate status, this Slavery Abolition Act did not cover magicals in the United Kingdom.

“However, in 1835, the Wizengamot passed the Freeman Act, which made it illegal for a pureblood witch or wizard to own a squib, a muggle, a muggle-born or half-blood. It also made it illegal for a muggle, a squib, a muggle-born or half-blood to own other squibs, muggles, muggle-borns or half-bloods.”

The realization of what was going on hit home for several of the children sitting in front of Mr. Pierson. Not all, but some.

“The muggles have something called the Rule of Conquest. Basically it means to the victors go the spoils of land. Think of it as one country invading another and taking big pieces of the land the loser occupied. The magicals have a similar rule known as the Right of Conquest. Basically it means to the victors go all the spoils – land, homes, and any recognized property. For example: a young magical boy 1-year of age defeats an older, more experienced, self-professed Dark Lord. He should have immediately claimed all that Dark Lord’s possessions, but that didn’t happen.

“It turned out that the same self-professed Dark Lord was not entirely dead, so certain conditions come to play. The young magical boy had to defeat the Dark Lord three times in combat for the Right of Conquest to be magically binding. The first defeat where the Dark Lord lost his body was combat #1. The second defeat where the young hero defeated the host the Dark Lord was controlling was combat #2. The third defeat where the same young hero defeated a 1,000-year-old basilisk along with the shade of the Dark Lord himself was combat #3. Three times the hero bested the Dark Lord. The Right of Conquest was magically bound at that point.

“Now let’s return to magical law. While the Freeman Act of 1835 ended the “property” status of all chattel from years and centuries previous from pureblood magicals owning slaves, there remained a loophole. Tom Marvolo Riddle was born to a pureblood witch and a muggle. I believe the wizard community would classify him as being a half-blood. The current wizard laws do not cover squibs, muggles, muggle-borns and half-bloods owning purebloods, which from my understanding all of you are,” Pierson stated.

“The wizard world won’t stand for this!” Draco spouted as he rose to his feet. “My father is an important man! Not only does the Malfoy family have a seat on Wizengamot, we have many friends in the Wizengamot and they just will not stand for this!”

Pierson turned his full attention on Draco. “Draco Malfoy, I presume?”

Draco tipped his chin up slightly so that he was more or less looking down his nose at Pierson.

“Let me correct some of your preconceived notions,” Pierson said calmly, clearly not affected by Draco’s tantrum. “First off your father was an important man and now he’s a slave… shoveling Hippogriff dung, I do believe.” He glanced over to a goblin for confirmation. The goblin nodded his head while smiling evilly at the thought of the arrogant pureblood getting a taste of Hippogriff dung before his real task would begin.

“The Malfoy fortune, business and properties now belong to Mr. Potter since slaves cannot own anything,” Pierson stated simply. “As for the Wizengamot… I think they will find it difficult to do much of anything when they need majority vote to make any changes to the existing laws. And since he is not permitted to take or vote any of those seats due to Fudge having him declared guilty, Mr. Potter must abstain from voting.”

Pierson walked around the table and over to Draco. “To put it simply, Mr. Potter has gutted the Wizengamot and will shortly destroy the economy of the wizard community in all of Britain. And you, little boy, are his slave to do with as he pleases.”

“And what about our parents?” Tracy Davis said with a waver in her voice.

“Your parents each received a dose of Veritaserum and were then questioned about their role during the war and since. In addition, they were questioned about what they desired to do with their lives. Based on that information they were, are, or will be assigned jobs they will work for the rest of their lives,” Pierson answered.

“I want my mummy,” one of the younger children sobbed.

Pierson sighed sadly. “I know little one.”

“My mother wasn’t a Death Eater,” a young man in the back said as he stood up, the Ravenclaw emblem still on his robes. “She would tell me I would have to look beyond being a pureblood, half-blood or muggle born. That it was someone’s magic that was important, not their blood. I remember seeing my father strike her for saying that… what will happen to her?”

Pierson glanced over to one of the goblins.

“Mr. Potter is still deciding her fate and the fates of others like her,” the goblin answered.

Pierson nodded his head in thanks before turning back to the children of the Death Eaters.

“And our fate? You mentioned that you were our one chance at freedom,” one of the older children said.

Pierson nodded his head. “In an act of compassion, Mr. Potter approached Her Majesty about your fate and Her Majesty has agreed to make all of you wards of the Crown with some conditions. If you agree to the conditions, your status as a slave will end. First: your magic will be bound and you will have no access to the wizard world.”

The ones who were old enough to understand what exactly Pierson was saying shouted in outrage. Pierson stood there and allowed them to express their displeasure for a few minutes.

“Are you done?” Pierson asked as when the young people had quieted down for a moment. “Because I can assure you that nothing you say and do right now will change Her Majesty’s or Mr. Potter’s minds. Your choice is simple: either a life as a muggle with the chance of finding happiness or the life of a slave; no magic, no children, no freedom and no happiness.”

“Would we stay together?” a big brother said as he held his little sister in his lap.

Pierson nodded his head. “Yes. We plan on keeping brothers and sisters together,” he replied with a smile before allowing it to fade. “However it was decided it would be best for you not to be allowed to stay as group.”

“Why is that?” Draco said in a snide tone of voice. “Afraid we’ll plot behind you back?”

“No. It’s because some of you are snide little brats who will make the others miserable while they try to adapt to life without magic,” Pierson glared at him.

“I would rather be a slave in the wizard world than live among some filthy muggles,” Draco snarled.

“Fine,” Pierson shrugged his shoulders as he signaled a guard to collect Draco. “I believe your new job is cultivating and harvesting crowberries in the moors of Scotland. You will of course be doing this without magical means, so it will require shuffling through the peat bogs on hands and knees to find the berries. The stench of any crowberries staining your hands will be pretty powerful so you will be housed separately from the rest of the slaves or they will kill you.”

“What? No!” Draco exclaimed as the goblin hauled him out of his chair and dragged him towards the door.

“Wait,” Pierson called out when the goblin and Draco were only a few feet from the door.

The goblin turned Draco around so he was facing Pierson and the other children.

“I can only assume from your protest that you have changed your mind Mr. Malfoy?” Pierson said smugly. “And that you find yourself embracing the idea of living the rest of your life as a muggle?”

Draco grit his teeth and nodded his head in the affirmative.

“Very well. You may release him,” Pierson directed.

The goblin released his grasp on Draco’s arms, allowing him to drop to the floor in an ungraceful lump before he took his former guard position.

Pierson gave a small nod of approval before turning back to the other children. “Now as I was saying…”

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
I decided to end this chapter here since it was getting pretty long as is. The next chapter starts to explore what happened to those marked as chattel and their offspring.


	5. Shafting Death Eaters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More people get the shaft

**Author’s notes:**  
A reviewer of the last chapter pointed out that I had really created an awful scenario at the end of that chapter. This reviewer was not happy the way things turned out for some of the “innocent” characters, and after thinking about it, I had to agree. I had already planned to create further chapters relating to DE characters and their offspring, but had not given proper thought about those characters that are actually good and not the total jerks like Malfoy. Why should they have been screwed over because they were related to a DE or a DE supporter?

Crack fics that I have read basically all do the same thing: have the good guy win by screwing over the bad guys in various humorous, embarrassing, and potentially lethal ways. But none of those fics screwed over the good guys as a consequence. Thank you, agnar, for pointing out my lapse. This chapter is in response to that review.

As you have come to expect, there is more swearing here. As always, you have been warned.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter series. This is purely for fun.

**-o0o-**

Adam Pierson, who had a background in law (both in the private sector as well in having done a stint with public service), looked at the clock on the wall yet again. It was 3:14am local. He mentally reviewed the last 20 hours. Had it really been that long he wondered. It had started with getting the retrieval forms signed (which required a bribe to get them signed sooner rather than delay them to later). Once that was finished, he handed over all forms to Mr. Smith, his liaison who handed them off to the goblins.

When his initial document work was finished, he then headed over to meet his team of caseworkers on the north side of London, well away from Diagon Alley. He met all six members of his team before 11:00am at a bakery owned by one of the caseworker’s family members. Even if they were overheard (which wasn’t likely), they would not violate any secrecy laws. His team consisted of Ed Asner (no relation), Jon Winters, Elizabeth Winters, David McCready, Jessica McCready, and Karen Longshore. There were two brother-sister teams in this group. The youngest member of the team (Jessica) had 9 years caseworker experience with Ed having the most at 24 years’ experience.

He had been amazed when the Queen had sent for him and his team weeks ago with strict instructions of what was going to happen on September 1st. How Pierson was going to be the de facto project manager of this endeavor, and that they were going to be taking direction from Mr. Potter, who was working with good intentions on behest of the Crown. He and his team had met Mr. Potter in Zurich of all place, with Mr. Potter paying all transportation, per diem and other costs. One thing was for sure, he thought when he met Mr. Potter. He wasn’t in government, otherwise he would have made them pay out of pocket for something – that was the government way.

Pierson and the others met with Mr. Potter and he outlined his plan. There were some concerns which is why the Queen had sent Pierson and the others to fully flesh out Mr. Potter’s plan. While some of it was nebulous at best, other parts of it were downright criminal which the Queen, along with Mr. Pierson and the others did not want any part of. This was where Mr. Potter acknowledged that he was in serious need of their counsel. And counsel they gave. For several days they went through all scenarios and revisions. Ed shored up parts of several plans while Mr. Potter gave his impressions of those individuals they would be meeting.

After a quick lunch at the bakery on September 1st, Pierson and his team made their way to a mostly vacant building with several floors outfitted for their use which was going to be their home for the next few days while work progressed. The retrieval squads began appearing one after another, their quarry bundled up, dropped off unceremoniously, and magical suppressors in place. Ed, Karen, Jon and Elizabeth were assigned to these individuals as their caseworkers for the moment. It was possible they might end up with these members for the rest of their lives, or they may trade off as needs arose. These were fairly easy to categorize and then put in secure quarters until the final okay was given.

It was when the kids came that Pierson, David and Jessica knew they would feel it the worst. But, fortunately, there was a plan in place. And so David and Jessica began talking with the children immediately after that little snot Malfoy had backed down. During that time Pierson had moved to his office (which was just a large table with 7 chairs around it) and began compiling all records, reviewing comments, and talking with each of his team members to get the best outcome for all the retrieved members.

This kept him busy until 3:14am local. He finally moved the glasses off his nose and pushed them up onto his forehead while he rubbed his sore eyes. His team was all there except David. However he entered the office while Pierson rubbed his eyes.

“How are the kids, Dave?” Pierson said.

“Scared. Confused. They want their parents,” he replied with a sigh as he poured himself another cup of coffee. He had long since lost count of how many cups he’d had since the day started.

“Thanks for making sure they were all bedded down for the night,” Karen acknowledged, pushing some fake sugar to him. Dave nodded his thanks for both the comment and the chemical he was going to add to his coffee to make it a little more tolerable.

The rest of the team gave him a few moments to take a drink of his caffeine before they got started.

Adam Pierson, who everyone simply called Pierson blinked a few times to push the yawns away. It didn’t help. He yawned (loudly) and when finished ran a hand through his greying hair while looking for his glasses. Finding them, he put them back on and looked around the table. “Okay everyone. You’ve had a chance to talk to the members on your caseload. Thoughts?”

Ed answered, “Mr. Potter was spot on with my group. I know I’m not supposed to inject my personal opinions on the people in a caseload, but I have never met a bigger amount of self-entitled shits in my life.”

“You got that right,” Karen replied. “Ed had to deal with Mr. Malfoy and I got Mrs. Malfoy. If it wasn’t for the goblin guards, I doubt they would have held off assaulting us, or trying to kill us.”

“That, and the fact they didn’t have wands or any magic to think of. It wasn’t as if they were going to sully their hands trying to do us harm physically,” Ed interjected.

“True,” his work partner replied.

“Any salvageable prospects?” Pierson said.

“Two,” Ed answered immediately. “We handed them over to Elizabeth earlier.”

“Jon? Elizabeth? How is your group?” Pierson queried the next team.

Elizabeth answered while Jon took another gulp of coffee. “We had nothing to go on from this group from Mr. Potter. Once we got the two transfers, we’re now up to 63 salvageable individuals. We lost 9 over to Ed and Karen.”

“Ballpark how salvageable these 63 are,” Pierson instructed.

“No questionables. All solid,” Jon supplied.

“Okay. That’s good anyway. David, Jessica?”

“I’ll bottom line it: we lost 21. The rest are salvageable.” Jessica had not been happy to lose the 21 they did, but knew the rest were going to be better off with them gone.

David added to his partner’s report saying, “They are all solid. All wanting the best, not the worst.”

Pierson looked through the names on a spreadsheet indicating the group in question. “About the 21 you lost – what happened there?”

“Mr. Potter’s summations of character profiles were spot on for 17 of them,” Jessica said in a tired voice. “The other 4 were surprises to David and myself. They didn’t want to live without their magic. No matter what.”

“Can they be salvaged?”

“Possibly. The answers to the questionings were vague at times. It was a hard read on these four. I wouldn’t do it before they reached their majority no matter what,” David said.

Pierson nodded at the group, finishing his last note. “Okay. Let’s give an update to Mr. Potter.”

Pierson quickly placed an international call to Switzerland. He activated the speakerphone so all could hear and talk. The state-of-the-art video monitor showed a bleary-eyed Harry Potter who was waiting for their call.

“Mr. Potter? Pierson here. With me is the entire team.”

“Thank you for working this long day, Mr. Pierson. All of you; thank you for all your work.”

“We appreciate this opportunity to help the Crown. As well as help magical society.”

“Yeah. I hear you,” Harry replied, willing to help the Crown as well. “So what’s the result?”

“Here are the final numbers,” Pierson began. “The Retrieval Teams acquired 219 individuals. There are 39 other individuals from these families that are out of the country currently. The Teams are searching for them now. Of the 219, there were 24 primary family lines affected along with multiple cadet and other lines. Breakouts of families are: 62 children at or below the age of 17. Of those, 21 will be remaining while the other 41 should be given the ‘H’ package.

Harry had a pained look on his face. “Twenty-one? Really? Jeez, I was hoping for a better outcome than that. Still, I guess 41 is better than I had hoped.”

“A few decided they wanted their magic more than anything.”

“Will they come back around?”

“Doubtful on most of them, even when they hear the results,” Jessica interjected. “The rest I’m unsure of. Maybe. But I wouldn’t offer it to them again until they hit legal age.”

Returning to the list, Pierson continued, “Of the 157 adults, 24 of those are family heads and are slated for the ‘S’ package. None of them wanted to give up anything.”

“No surprise there,” Harry shook his head.

“Correct. We expected 100% of those family heads to reject any assistance. They did. Of the 133 adults remaining, 70 are unsalvageable while the last 63 we are strongly recommending get the ‘H’ package.”

“I know if I decide differently you have the option as well as the obligation to press for a different outcome on those 63 to the Queen. And she will do what is right regardless. I trust all of your experience in this matter, so give them the ‘H’ package. When do you want to let everyone know?”

“After breakfast,” Pierson answered immediately. “No sense waiting. Approximately 10am local here considering how late it is now.”

“Sounds good. I will be available when you call. Until then.”

**-o0o-**

At 10am local, the 94 adults to get the ‘S’ package were brought into the larger conference room. Goblin guards were posted around the room, all holding long spears that were coated some fresh red. These adults looked at the fierce goblins that they had demeaned over the years and at the red on the spear tips and all wondered the same thing: who had pissed off that goblin and gotten impaled for their mouth? The fact that a dozen goblins were around the room and all had fresh red on their spear tips did not enter into their minds. All they knew was that goblins loved violence as their current predicament suggested.

However, they did not know that goblins also loved to watch violence that was funny. This would explain why all of these particular goblins spent their Sunday evening off-duty shift together drinking something a lot better than human beer while watching the antics of one James Garner in the always-funny classic ‘Support Your Local Sheriff!’ The fact that Bruce Dern was locked up in a jail that didn’t have any bars because he was scared stiff of the fake blood that Garner’s sheriff character used as a prop had enticed them to try the same thing on these foolish wizards. Damn but if it didn’t work, thought Cliffdropper with a smirk as the chattel took their seats.

These adults, tired, disheveled, and generally annoying all saw Mr. Pierson and the other six caseworkers sitting at the front table. Behind them was a black mirror for some reason. Probably to mirror their black souls, Jessica Goyle thought as she took her seat. Shackles around wrists and ankles were not employed and instead each adult wore a silver magical inhibiting necklace. A necklace that would not come off no matter how much they tried.

“Quiet down please,” Pierson repeated several time. “Thank you. This meeting is to give you your final update before you are shipped off to your destinations. You have all met with your caseworker. You are all scheduled for the ‘S’ package. Your caseworker will monitor your health, your working conditions, your well-being and the well-being of those around you for the duration of your incarceration.”

Lucius Malfoy sneered at the man speaking. “You mean for the duration we are to be slaves, right?”

“Essentially correct, Mr. Malfoy. You branded yourselves and effectively ended your family lines. You belong to a half-blood now. However, we are employed by the British government to ensure you are essentially well-treated until your slavery is ended.”

Lucius tried a different track. “I still don’t know how you were able to illegally attack and hold us prisoners? The ill-intent wards on my property…”

“Were nullified once a certain status was recognized,” Pierson said over the Malfoy sneer.

“A status? What do you mean?” Lucius snapped.

Pierson blinked. “Ah, that’s right. You all never got the full story. My apologies for that oversight. Very well, here is the summary. You are all purebloods. You all directly or indirectly vowed allegiance to your so-called Lord Voldemort and allowed him to brand you with a tattoo. Your family became his family. He is a half-blood and not a pureblood. You signed away your family futures to him and became his slaves to do with as he wanted.”

“So this was something that our Dark Lord envisioned?” Lucius half-hoped.

“No,” Pierson said bluntly.

The black monitor came to life with some unknown magic and everyone immediately saw a stern-faced Harry Potter sitting and watch, and let’s face it, judging these Death Eaters and supporters. “No, this is not something that Voldie thought of. It is something I thought of.”

“But you are just a boy. You couldn’t do this. You’re still underage,” Narcissa Malfoy stated as if that would change everything.

“Not any longer,” Pierson addressed her last remark. “He is a recognized adult due to having been tried in an adult court. His status was recognized by Gringotts and all holdings of your Lord Voldemort became his due to having defeated your Dark Lord in combat. That means you are his slaves.”

“Is this all of them?” Harry said wanting to get this part over with.

“Yes, these are all the ‘S’ package recipients,” Pierson looked towards Harry.

“Where’s my son?” Narcissa demanded.

“He’s with the next group,” David admitted.

“Why not here?” she continued.

“As an underage minor, he is getting a different option. His magic will be bound while given freedom,” Pierson admitted.

“That sounds better than what I’ve been offered. I’ll take that too,” an old, fat wizard said as if his word would be followed immediately like it had until the day previous.

Several others shouted that they wanted that option as well.

“Unfortunately, that is not an option for any of you,” Pierson said with not an ounce of remorse.

Gretta Jugson was borderline hysterical and half-shouted, “Listen, this is all a mistake. We are all innocent and the Ministry can confirm it. Fudge especially will confirm it!”

“Unfortunately at this time we can’t get in touch with Fudge as they are in a Wizengamot meeting currently and as they say, time waits for no man. So since he isn’t there, they will just have to do with seeing what Mr. Potter wants to do with you.”

Pierson turned to Mr. Potter who still looked on the group with loathing. He was glad that Mr. Potter had not come to the meeting in person. He was unsure if some, most, or any would have survived against a determined young wizard with a wand.

“Twenty-four family lines,” Harry stated. “Old families. You are all done. Your magic won’t be bound as that would kill most of you, but it will be locked. This will allow you to live as long as you can. Mr. Pierson, put them to work as agreed.

Immediately, dozens of voices shouted, “Please! Show mercy! Show compassion!”

Harry looked at the crowd. Most showed fear. Some anger. “Why should I show compassion?”

A large man stood and said, “We can name names that have hurt the ministry!”

An equally large woman stood and said, “Because it is the right thing to do!”

A nearly-large man two rows back said, “It would save your soul. Hate tears at you!”

Betty Crabbe said, “Because it is what a hero would do!”

There were other suggestions among the many repeated ones, along with bribes of things they no longer owned even if they did not know it or remember it. Harry put his hand up in the classic stop motion.

“I have heard all your suggestions. And I have to say…” he trailed off for a moment as he took a sip of water. “I have to say that it is a good thing that I gave up the Hero game. Mr. Pierson, lock their magic and put them to work. Hope you all enjoy your new jobs, you elitist shits. You and your ilk got my parents killed. I’m not going to take your lives, but I am going to kill that fucking sense of entitlement you all have. We are all humans on this planet. You all think you are above everyone else and that we aren’t worthy of licking the bottom of your shoes. Well guess what? I don’t want you around anymore. Neither does my godfather and everyone else I know. I want you removed from the gene pool even if you all don’t know what that means.”

“Noooooooo!” was the common sentiment for a few minutes as the elitist shits broke down.

Jonathan Bierson, former Wizengamot member who sat in the front row stood in defiance and snarled, “The ministry will find us you know. They will rescue us. Do your worst, muggle.”

Pierson was surprised. “Muggle? Me? I assure you, Mr. Bierson, that I am not a muggle. I am muggle-born as are the other caseworkers up here. I recall you from school you know. I’m only two years younger than you. And at Hogwarts you looked down on everyone there, making sure your displeasure was known all the time, and you were still doing it when you sat in the Wizengamot against Mr. Potter. Get them out of here.”

“Wait!” yelled Narcissa Malfoy as the guards began rounding up the chattel.

“Yes, Mrs. Malfoy?” said a tired Pierson.

“Will we have to wear these slave clothes the rest of our lives too? It’s bad enough to being regulated to the status of a house elf, but do we have to wear a brown shirt with an ‘S’ on it for Slave?”

“The ‘S’ does not represent the word Slave, Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said calmly.

“What does it stand for?”

“Screwed.”

**-o0o-**

At 11am local, a couple goblin guards escorted the 21 kids in the next group into the conference room. They all wore t-shirts with a large ‘B’ on the front. Again, no shackles were used and instead all 21 of them wore a silver necklace just as the previous adults did.

“Quiet down please,” Mr. Pierson said as the group took chairs. “Thank you. This meeting is to give you your final update before you are moved on. You have all met with your caseworker. You are all scheduled for the “B” package. Your caseworker will monitor your health, your living conditions, your well-being and the well-being of those around you until you become an adult in the eyes of the government. For those of you not comprehending what this means, you will not be an adult until the age of 18.

“Next, your magic will be bound later today. You will then be moved to separate facilities to begin your next phase in life while learning to adapt without magic. You will all attend different schools and yes, these will be muggle schools. I would encourage you not to speak of magic around your new peers as that will set you apart from them even more and not win you any friends.”

“Like I need to make friends with muggles,” sneered Draco Malfoy in the same tone as his father.

“That is entirely up to you, Mr. Malfoy,” Pierson said calmly.

“Will we be given addresses of our parents or friends here?” Theodore Nott inquired.

Jessica answered this with, “Short answer is: some yes and some no. We will be monitoring everyone’s progress and addresses of friends will be given out if both parties agree to it after a specific period. Addresses for your parents will not be given out, but eventually you will be able to send them mail through an intermediary. That is, if Mr. Potter as well as we all agree to it.”

“Why can’t we send mail to our parents? Afraid we’ll say something and they’ll revolt?”

Mr. Pierson replied, “No. They will have a hard enough time adapting to their new menial jobs without having to listen to your whining. Remember: they are essentially slaves. You will have your freedom. This will be harder for them than for you, Mr. Malfoy.”

“My father is a strong man. He is a survivor. He can get through this and in time I free him and get our magic back.”

David scoffed, unable to stomach this kid’s attitude which nearly mirrored his father’s. “He’s a survivor? Your group was supposed to be here 15 minutes ago. It was delayed. Why is that you ask? Because your father along with many other of your parents and their friends had to be forcibly removed and in some cases dragged from this room once they finally realized they had been assigned menial jobs and had to get their hands dirty.”

“David,” Pierson arched an eyebrow.

“Sorry Adam.”

“Regardless, Mr. Malfoy, you will not be getting in touch with your parents any time soon. As previously mentioned, they have been assigned new jobs. Your father, Lucius, is now cleaning up dung, and will be doing that for the foreseeable future. Your mother will now be assisting older ladies prepare for parties.”

“Wait! You made my mother a house elf?”

“Now that you mention it, yes,” Pierson admitted.

“Where are all the others that were here when the goblins “collected” us?” Blaise sneered.

“Not to worry, Mr. Zabini. They are getting a different package.”

“They’re going to be house elves too?” he sneered again.

“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s their choice,” Pierson replied. “Meanwhile, let’s get this over with. Guards?”

“Wait!” yelled Pansy Parkinson as the guards began rounding up the soon-to-be-bound kids.

“Yes, Miss Parkinson?” said a still-tired Pierson.

“Will we have to wear these ugly clothes the rest of our lives too? It’s bad enough to being regulated to the status of a muggle, but do we have to wear a yellow shirt with a brown ‘B’ on it telling everyone that we are Bound?”

“The ‘B’ does not represent the word Bound, Parkinson,” Harry said calmly, speaking for the first time.

“What does it stand for, Potter?”

“Boned.”

**-o0o-**

At 11:30am local, a couple goblin guards escorted the 41 remaining children into the conference room. They quietly took their seats and a minute later more goblins escorted the remaining 63 adults into the same room. “Mommy!” “Dad!” were frequent outbursts as many children ran to their parent or parents. In a few cases, several children had no one to run to. Their parents had been part of the “S” package group.

But everyone in that room was related somehow and as such, cousins, aunts, uncles, nephews and nieces brought them into other family clusters. Mr. Pierson and the caseworkers allowed the families to reunite and spend a few minutes making sure everyone was all right. As before, there were no shackles seen, and this time there were no silver necklaces in sight either.

“Quiet down please,” Mr. Pierson said as everyone wearing a t-shirt with an ‘H’ on it took a seat. “Thank you. This meeting is to give you your final update before you are moved on. You have all met with your caseworker. You are all scheduled for the ‘H’ package. How you got here was through a series of tests you did not know you were taking. These included:

“One: when you were told to either accept being bound or remain a slave, even when you were told you would have a comfy slave job, you all chose freedom to that of being a slave. Your magic was not as important as your life.

“Two: when you were in group settings with those you will notice are not here, you were told from these other individuals that you all needed to remain in touch in order to find a way to reverse all of what was happening. You all either told these other individuals to piss off, or said you would think on it and then when you met your caseworker, you volunteered what they were up to when asked if you knew anything that would adversely affect Mr. Potter. Their wants and desires were not yours, nor were they your responsibility.

“Three: You all showed compassion to others. You were all in a difficult position but still tried to help more than just yourself. That is what Mr. Potter could see separated a Death Eater, a Death Eater supporter, a purist, and a bigot from those he wanted to help. You all met that criteria and are now part of the ‘H’ package.

“All other adults picked up in this sweep who are not here were part of the ‘S’ package and have had their magic locked while assigned jobs they will be working in for the rest of their lives. All other children picked up in this sweep who are not here were part of the ‘B’ package and had their magic bound and sent somewhere else to live while learning what it is like to be a muggle. Once they turn 18 years of age, they will then be released from where they are staying and will have to make a go at it in the muggle world.

“All of you now have a choice in what happens. Option #1: any of you can have your magic bound or locked and you will be allowed to leave and live your own lives as you see fit, although it will be without magic. This means you will have to go muggle, learning new concepts, learning how to fit in. Mr. Potter will of course provide assistance with this option. You will get a stipend, tutors, assistance in finding jobs, flats, homes, even driving lessons.

“Option #2: you all swear fealty to Mr. Potter and become recognized vassals of the Potter line. This will ensure your family name continues if you want. Family members will stay together. In fact all members will stay together for at least five years working on a project for Mr. Potter. At the conclusion of the project, or five years have passed, whichever comes first, everyone will be given family stipends and allowed complete freedom. There will be no restrictions. You will have all your magic.”

“Is there a catch, Mr. Pierson?” said Sally Yvon, loosely related to the McNair family.

“Yes,” Pierson replied immediately. “The catch is: you will all live at Hogwarts as that location is no longer a school. Plans are in place and work begins in a few days for it to become a Bed and Breakfast, or B&B, the likes the world has never seen. You and your family members will be living and working in the castle for five years while we all work out the kinks. It is a family project so you will all be making money during this time. While this is not out and out freedom for any of you until 5 years have passed, keep in mind your family heads basically enslaved you all to a monster and certain conditions must be met in order to un-enslave you all. The wording of the master contract used by that so-called Dark Lord stipulated a time element of no less than five years.”

“I don’t understand,” Felicity Newkirk’s lips trembled in confusion as she held onto her two young 8-year old twins.

“Allow me, Mr. Pierson,” Harry voiced to the crowd. “To get the dark mark on the primary family member, a dark contract was enacted. Breaking it would kill not only the one marked with the tattoo, but would also kill all family members. To break this dark contract and not have anyone die we had to either bind magic, lock magic, or sever the magical individual from that original family head for a minimum of five years. That is why the second option includes swearing fealty to my family. By doing that, you reject the old primary Death Eater family headship and accept mine instead. That severs any connection you have to that dark contract that was enacted by the family member who sold you to Voldemort. You stay within my family structure for five years. The dark contract becomes null and void and you are not bound by that contract no matter what anyone says.”

“Fel,” an older woman said near the mother and her 8-year old twins. “It’s basically we accept Mr. Potter’s offer, either one, or we run the risk of becoming chattel again if somehow someone wants to enact that dark contract.”

Felicity nodded at the other woman. “Thanks, Maggie. Okay, Mr. Pierson. Tell us more about option #2.”

“All family members who accept the second option will be staying at Hogwarts B&B for five years. Children not of age will be homeschooled. Tutors will be provided. This will include both magical education and mundane education. These tutors will be open to everyone considering you will have to be able to operate in both worlds.”

“Why is that, Mr. Pierson?” Maggie said.

“Mr. Potter?” Pierson looked at the monitor.

“This B&B will be open to the muggles as a concept B&B. We will be marketing it as the Historical Haunted Hogwarts, the most haunted place in Great Britain. It will have ghosts, a resident poltergeist, magically moving staircases, a laundry service that magically disappears your clothes only to return them just as magically now cleaned. There will be monsters nearby if a muggle can get a picture of one. Maybe even a unicorn.”

“That sounds like Hogwarts now, Mr. Potter,” Maggie pointed out with many of the others in nodding their heads.

“Very true. You and I both know that. But muggles don’t. They don’t believe in magic. They will be convinced this is all fake. Your job will be to ensure they do think it is all fake, but so cleverly done they will tell their friends and business will take off.

“You see, once you tell a muggle that a place is haunted, they won’t believe it even if they see it. They figure it will be the people living at the place playing dress-up. They will see magic and figure it is all fake especially when the tourism offices start shouting that the place is filled with magical items, and that if anyone can find it is fake, then their stay is free! And to keep the idea that it is fake but cleverly done, every now and then a customer will get a free stay or some other gift.”

Harry’s enthusiasm was infectious as he explained concept after concept for this Haunted B&B and how everyone would be involved. Harry never brought up that the real reason he wanted to make a B&B was to give all the house elves something to do. The ‘H’ package group was still going to hang at Hogwarts for 5 years, which was going to happen no matter what. But this way the elves would be happy too.

Questions answered enough, and a pledge to answer others as they came up, Pierson told the group were they were off to next.

“Wait!” yelled Elizabeth Monkwood as the now un-armed guards began escorting the adults and kids to the makeshift dining hall where they were to get the first decent meal since this all began.

“Yes, Miss Monkwood?” said a thoroughly knackered Pierson. He had a Pepper-Up in his future.

“Freedom or not, will we have to wear these ugly shirts for the next five years? While I don’t mind learning the hotel industry from the ground up, I want to go on record that all of us wearing black t-shirts with a large white “H” on it does not look that good to guests. What does that “H” stand for anyway? Hospitality?”

“I think it stands for ‘Hope’,” suggested 10-year old Mindy Corning.

“The ‘H’ does not represent Hospitality, Ms. Monkwood,” Harry replied calmly. “It could have stood for Hope but that was not my first thought either.”

“What does it stand for, Mr. Potter?”

“Happy-path. Just because you were all related to some real shits doesn’t mean you are like them.”

**-o0o-**

This last group of adults and kids moved into the vacated Hogwarts castle on September 8th much to the house elves delight. Committees were formed, direction was given, and work began on renovating Hogwarts School into Hogwarts B&B. It really wasn’t as hard as it sounded in some respects, thanks to magic being used liberally. The hardest part was passing code inspection which was done by a few squibs that Mr. Pierson knew.

Some wards were taken down obviously as it wouldn’t have been prudent to have muggle-repelling wards on the muggle guests. Instead, these were converted to paparazzi-repelling wards which did more for the castle’s notoriety in years to come than Harry had thought it would.

Unsure of how to interact with muggles, training was provided and those that felt comfortable were asked to take a leadership role at the front desk. Eventually all became comfortable around muggles as they realized that they were just people after all. People who tended to overeat when on vacation and have major problems in the bathrooms. Thank god for the house elves and their ability to use bathroom spray liberally. In short, they were just like magicals.

The house elves, as energetic as they were, and as good as they were at remaining out of sight, did not go unseen for long. Muggles noticed them and thereafter referred to them as little people. It took a few more years before the magicals truly understood what that meant. Of course, when the muggles saw the centaurs, it was always at a distance – a fact that many brought up during meals with a knowing nod saying it was to be expected otherwise the castle wouldn’t be “magical” now would it? The squid was seen up close from time to time but was dismissed as an incredibly complex animatronic. Many questions arose about Nessie, but the magicals didn’t have an answer for that either since they didn’t know who Nessie was for a few more years.

As for the ghosts… well, they absolutely loved having muggles there and once the wards were tweaked to allow them to be noticed by non-magicals, they went to town scaring the bejeezus out of everyone they could. Visiting kids loved it. Adults… not so much since they usually picked inconvenient times. Especially Moaning Mrytle. If the adults didn’t know all those ghosts were just holograms, they might have been more concerned, but hey, there were no such things as ghosts, right?

As the years passed, Historical Haunted Hogwarts B&B became a very fun place to visit. The staff was friendly. The food was good. The ghosts enjoyed playing hide and seek with the kids, giving the adults more play time, and there was always something to do. Even arm up and repel a giant spider attack every June from the castle walls. Good times. And a good workout. If only the local gyms back in London could be this fun. And no visit would be complete without a trip to the fabled Chamber of Secrets. It was a slide ride to the bottom, an archeologist expedition around a seemingly mythical (and mystical) room, plenty of digging around for mystical finds, and whatever was found could be kept by the kids or turned in for some magical money which could be spent at the gift shop and some nifty candy no one else could get back in Brighton or Huntingdon or even London.

And when anyone was done playing archeologist, they could take the newly installed elevator back to the main floor in order to partake a dueling lesson with an animated suit of armor with a hologram in a painting giving instructions. Or they could explore the dungeon which was filled with ghosts of victims past who had died on a rack, or in an iron maiden, or were operated on by evil dentists. Brrr, that last room, the one with medieval and even current dental practices gave everyone the shivers.

The caseworkers remained in contact with everyone in their role as newly appointed magical social services. They ensured no one was abused during their mandatory 5-year de-dark-contracting stay at Triple-H B&B (the short name those staying at the castle had dubbed it). All kids were required to attend schooling classes and took the mandatory tests. At the end of the 5-year time frame, Harry formally gave everyone their “freedom” from a dark-contract. He also gave all family members a stake in Triple-H B&B. Most stayed on for at least some time. A few lived there the rest of their lives. Some wanted to see the world and left, but eventually came back even if for a short time. It wasn’t a bad place to live, especially when compared to the semi-arid deserts of western USA and their coyote vs. roadrunner battles. People came and went. There was always a family member in attendance at the Triple-H B&B.

In short, life went on.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
This chapter took longer to create than I thought it would. I had the initial idea as soon as I got the review saying it was a crap move to enslave good kids. I would start work on it, not like where it was going, take a break and return to it later to try something new to make it work. I’m still not happy where it is now, but I have to keep moving on or I could be stalled on it for months. The important part here is the happy ending for the good kids.

The silver lining here is that I have gotten in some good work on the ending while avoiding working on this chapter. It will be a surprise to most everyone I think. Of course, this story could keep going for some time, but all stories need to end somewhere.

Not to worry, there are still more chapters to come!


	6. Shafting the Ministry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of ministry people get the shaft

**Author’s Note:**

Quite a bit of this chapter is from Lady FoxFire’s original story. I have added some modifications but mostly it is intact.

It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

September 1st had started out so well for Cornelius. The sprogs… er… children were all off to Hogwarts, the adults back to everyday life. The Ministry was running well. Bribes were up. Convictions were down, which probably meant less crime as far as he was concerned. Those annoying muggles had stopped calling for him (thank Heaven!). Yes, things were going smoothly. And it all started once they got rid of that Potter brat.

Of course, that all started to change the afternoon of September 1st. Oh yes, it sure had. Reports started coming in that the goblins were running amok, slaying wizards and laying waste to towns. This was a nightmare! Even worse than when Lord Dark Thingie was running amok. There were a lot more goblins.

As the leader of the Wizarding World… er… of Wizarding Britain, which was just as good as saying the Wizarding World as far as he was concerned since all other countries could only hope to emulate him… well, he needed to show the country that the Ministry was still in charge and would resolve these goblin attacks. He quickly called Amelia only to find she was unavailable, her assistant saying she was in the field with all available aurors – which was ludicrous as far as he was concerned since she was in charge and everyone knew that once you were in charge you delegated everything. So, Amelia was unavailable and probably hiding. Right. He needed to delegate this to the Unspeakables. He had his assistant call to their department and Croaker sent a missive saying it was out of their hands and that the goblins were performing a public service, and to not bother them again.

They dismissed him! The Minister! Why he was going to go down there… wait, he had a goblin attack to counter. Yes. He had to come up with an idea. Ah! He had his assistant call for the goblin liaison, Bob or George or Deek, or something. Soon enough Dirk Cresswell was in his office.

“Well?” Minister Fudge demanded as soon as Cresswell entered the office.

“Well what?” the man returned, perplexed as to why he was there.

“What are you going to do about this goblin rebellion?”

“Drawing a blank here, Minister. There’s no rebellion happening that I am aware of. And I would know. There’s a specific treaty stating that if a rebellion does happen, explosions would result.”

“What are you talking about, Creckwell?”

“Cresswell. And what I mean is that if a rebellion were to happen, then the goblin leader would explode spectacularly as a result. And since I was just talking to him not 10 minutes ago, there is no rebellion.”

“What if it were an imposter you were talking to? Maybe that head goblin has already exploded,” Cornelius theorized, impressed with his own logic.

“Possible. But are you an imposter too?”

“What are you talking about, Crosgrove?”

“Cresswell. The treaty specifically states that the leaders of both signature party governments would explode. That means the goblin leader, and the wizarding leader.” After a moment of quiet reflection, Dirk pointed out, “That means you would explode too.”

“WHAT?! Who put that stipulation in that treaty?!”

“Actually, the better question would by why that was added. Upon the last cessation of hostilities it was found that the goblin rebellion that had just ended had been instigated by the then current Minister’s cabinet looking to do a land-grab. This clause was amended to the treaty as a compromise of both governments to ensure that neither government go out of their way to screw each other over and incite a rebellion for whatever reason.”

“So I’ve got to worry about the goblins not rebelling until I’m out of office or I will explode?!”

“Oh no, Minister. The treaty specifically states all current and former heads of government. That means it could happen to you any time until you die.”

“WHAT?!”

Needless to say, Cornelius needed a little time to come to grips with the potential death sentence over his head. When he did finally realize that a goblin rebellion wasn’t in play due to the fact he was still alive, he sent his assistant out to collect news of what happened. She returned several hours later with several accounts of people being taken prisoner by goblins. She also returned with an expense report for several hundred galleons that she had used to pay for drinks to calm his constituents down lest they march to the Ministry and demand her boss do something about the goblins right then and there.

Realizing that his assistant had averted another disaster, one pertaining to the potential loss of his head, Cornelius signed off on her expense report. Good assistant were hard to find, even if he couldn’t remember her name. She then pulled out a letter she thought the Minister would want to send out to all Wizengamot members requesting for them to show up for an emergency meeting at 10am the next day to discuss this Goblin attack and what it meant. He looked it over, signed it, and sat back down at his desk, unsure if just changing his name would remove him from that blasted goblin-rebellion-all-leaders-explode curse!

**-o0o-**

At approximately 10:20am September 2nd, Cornelius Fudge looked around the partially filled chamber used by the Wizengamot. “Do you think anyone else will show?”

“I doubt it,” Madam Bones replied calmly. A small smirk of satisfaction graced her lips as she took in the empty seats of Wizengamot members like the Malfoys and Notts.

“Hem, Hem,” Umbridge made the annoying noise she always made when she wanted to draw attention to herself. “I’m sure they’re just being delayed by something. After all Minister Fudge did call for a full Wizengamot, which means every member must attend.”

“True,” Bones admitted. “Unless they are no long able to hold their seat.”

“The only reason they would not be able to hold their seat was if they were dead and their heir is under-age,” Umbridge replied smugly.

“Or if they were no longer the Head of their line,” Lady Longbottom stated from her seat among the Wizengamot. “And I believe that is exactly what happened, isn’t it? Spoils of war and all that.”

“Lucius was found innocent of all crimes,” Fudge said in the defense of his greatest supporter.

A small smile graced Lady Longbottom’s lips. “Yet he was marked. Just like a farmer brands his cattle.”

“Yes… well…” Fudge sputtered.

“I’m more concerned with the boy claiming to be the Heir of the Founders and closing Hogwarts than the fate of some Death Eaters and their families,” one of the younger members of the Wizengamot stated.

“He’s right! My family is descended from both Lady Hufflepuff and Lady Ravenclaw and yet that boy took our title from family,” snarled an older wizard by the name of Basil Fawlty (no relation).

“It’s not like you’re the only family descended from the Founders,” a wizard with a neatly trimmed beard said. “Almost everyone in this room could claim to be descended from one of the founders.”

“Yes… well… my family is one of the oldest in the wizard world,” the wizard who claimed to be descended from two of the Founders said snottily.

“Before we continue this debate of who is more deserving of the title of Heir, perhaps we should start this session,” Madam Bones commented. “It is my understanding that there is a representative from Gringotts here to explain the matter at hand.”

“A goblin no doubt. Nasty little buggers,” one Wizengamot member commented. “Don’t see why they don’t send a wizard like is proper, instead of forcing us to deal with them.”

“I believe the only wizard who could explain what is going on had his wand snapped,” Lady Longbottom explained.

“Really? And who was that?” Fudge demanded. “I don’t remember anyone having their wand snapped expect for Potter.”

A few members of the Wizengamot shook their heads sadly while the majority of them nodded in agreement. Right then and there told Amelia Bones how bad things had gone. Not just in what had happened since this recent nightmare had started, but the overall decline of thinking in general.

Madam Bones sighed wearily. “I believe Lady Longbottom meant Harry Potter.”

“And what does he have to do with this?” Fudge demanded. “He’s not a wizard anymore.”

Lady Longbottom shook her head in disbelief at how little Fudge and many members of the Wizengamot understood of wizard law and of magic. It was all she could do not to pull her hidden flask of whisky out for a good draw.

“Why don’t we allow the Gringotts’ representative to explain everything,” Madam Bones suggested, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Very well,” Fudge grumbled. “Show the goblin in,” he ordered the guards who were stationed by the door.

Dirk Cresswell and a goblin entered. Dirk said something softly to the goblin, pointing to each member in attendance and then withdrew from the chamber.

The goblin who entered the room was not dressed the way most wizards were used to seeing a goblin. Instead of the usual suit and bow tie, this goblin was dressed in a black front laced poet shirt, a leather vest with pants and knee high boots. Tucked into the belt the goblin wore were two strange items that had a faint resemblance to muggle flintlock pistols. Little did the wizards know that they were indeed flintlock pistols; working flintlocks at that. Working flintlocks that fired iron (not lead) shots, which negated most wizard shields while continuing on their intended trajectories which was usually to impact unresisting flesh. That last little bit of knowledge had long since been forgotten by the Wizards, but not by the Goblin Nation.

“Greetings good ladies and wizards of the Wizengamot,” the goblin said with a slight bow of his head and a small smirk on his lips.

“We want to know why Gringotts has kidnapped a number of important people,” Fudge sputtered. “And how Potter was able to steal the title of Heir from the rightful families when he’s not a wizard anymore.”

The goblin looked at Fudge as if he was insignificant bug in a green pin-striped suit. The goblin arched an eyebrow at Fudge. Then looked past the Minister at someone who he could respect to follow protocol, even if only a fraction percent more.

Madam Bones sighed as she rubbed her forehead as if to ward off a headache. “Greetings good goblin,” she returned the greeting, giving a slight bow to the representative. “There are several matters that we are hoping that you could clarify for us. The first is the matter in which a number of witches and wizard have been declared to be slaves.”

“What about Potter’s theft of my family title to Heir to the Founders,” the wizard who said he was descended from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff shouted out.

“The matter at hand is the enslavement of a number of wizard families,” Madam Bones snapped back to the assembled members. “That is unless you want to ignore that fact that you too might share the same fate as the Malfoys or the Notts.”

“No… you’re quite right,” the wizard said hurriedly. “We must deal with the important matter as quickly as possible.”

Madam Bones shook her head. “Good goblin, would you kindly explain how a number of pureblood families became slaves?”

Protocol met, the goblin said, “There is not much to explain so I shall come right to the point. By Right of Conquest, Mr. Potter became owner of all properties and coinage of Tom Marvolo Riddle better known as the Dark Lord Voldemort. So by the wizard Act of 1522 anyone branded with… a symbol of ownership became property that can be sold, traded or won in combat.”

“And since the members of Wizengamot didn’t include purebloods in the Freeman Act, the collection of those marked along with their spouses, children and their properties is completely legal,” Madam Bones said.

The goblin nodded his head. “Exactly.”

“And what of those that have been sentenced to Azkaban?” Lady Longbottom asked. “Will they remain to serve out their sentence?”

“The 34 chattel in Azkaban were questioned with Veritaserum and then euthanized,” the goblin replied.

“Euthanized?” one Wizengamot member asked.

“He means executed,” another Wizengamot member explained.

“One cannot execute an animal,” the goblin countered.

“They were human beings, not animals,” Dumbledore commented. “They didn’t deserve to be treated in such a manner.”

“Oh I would disagree with you on that Albus,” Lady Longbottom said. “They were not humans but animals, sick and diseased animals and the world is better off with them dead.” She then turned to the goblin. “If at all possible please inform Mr. Potter that the Longbottom line sends our thanks for dealing with a problem we have been unable to deal with.”

The goblin nodded his head. “I will pass on your words to Mr. Potter. I know he was concerned that you might not take the death of your family’s enemy death in a favorable light. That you might have preferred to have handled the matter yourself.”

Lady Longbottom waved off Potter’s concern. “While I might have preferred to witness their death, I am satisfied to know that they will never harm another soul. My family has been avenged.”

“And what of those who were marked but not in Azkaban?” Dumbledore growled. “Are they destined to meet the same fate?”

“They were questioned under Veritaserum and based on their answers they were assigned to a job. For example, I believe Lucius Malfoy is currently shoveling Hippogriff dung,” the goblin replied with a smirk. “There is after all a growing market for fertilizer and someone has to do it.”

“Well Malfoy was always one to dig up shit on anyone if it was to his advantage. Now he’s just dealing with a different type of shit,” someone commented.

“And those not marked? What will happen to them?” Madam Bones asked.

“Some of them will also be put to work in jobs based off answers to questioning under Veritaserum. Others are having their fate determined as we speak. It is all up to them.”

“And the children?” Dumbledore demanded. “Were they also questioned and assigned jobs too?”

A toothy grin appeared on the goblin’s face. “The children have also been questioned. Some are still having their fates determined now. For others it has been decided to have their magic bound and for them to become wards of the Crown. It is, after all, for the greater good. Wouldn’t you agree, account holder Dumbledore?”

The members of the Wizengamot stared at the goblin in shock for a moment before Lady Longbottom started to snicker in a very un-lady like manner. Pulling the whisky flask out from under her robes, she raised it in the air. “A toast to Mr. Potter for doing what we always wanted to do and never dared to do.”

“What... what do you mean?” Fudge sputtered. “What did he do?”

“He took care of the worst threat to the wizard world,” Lady Longbottom answered, taking a swig.

“What threat?” Fudge asked dumbly

“He removed those who threatened to expose us to the muggle world,” Lady Longbottom answered.

“He removed the muggleborn?” Fudge said in confusion.

“No. He removed the worst of the pureblood bigots who would attack muggles at any time,” Lady Longbottom replied. “It’s only luck and the use of memory charms that have prevented the muggle world from discovering us before now. I for one would hate to be part of a modern day witch hunt.”

“Oh Mr. Potter did more than just that, my Lady,” the goblin practically purred.

The small smile that was on Madam Bones’ face as a result of Lady Longbottom’s words quickly disappeared. “And what exactly did Mr. Potter do?” she demanded in a firm, yet neutral expression.

A cruel smile appeared on the goblin’s face. “He removed his entire fortune from this nation.”

“What of it?” Fudge dismissed the matter.

“His entire fortune?” Lady Longbottom asked with dread. “Including the funds that were once owned by his chattel?”

The goblin simply nodded as his grin grew wider.

“And exactly how much is that?” Madam Bones asked.

“As you know employees of Gringotts cannot speak about other account holders,” the goblin replied.

“That would be a great deal of money,” one of the Wizengamot member announced after a few moments of adding up what he thought his missing peers possessed. “The Malfoys were one of the richest families in the Wizard World. The Potters were rumored to be almost as rich if not as rich as the Malfoys. And the other families… the removal of those funds… Mr. Potter could very well destroy our economy!”

“Hem, Hem,” Umbridge pretended to cough daintily. “I’m sure you’re over-reaching. I truly doubt that boy could destroy our economy.”

“That’s because you’re bloody stupid!” the Wizengamot member snapped.

“Come now, there is no need for such insults,” Dumbledore commented in a disapproving tone of voice.

“Says the man who is too fucking blind to see the royal mess we’re now in,” the Wizengamot member who had insulted Umbridge commented.

“I don’t understand,” Fudge said. “What’s the problem with the boy taking his funds and leaving Britain? We’re better off without him.”

“Perhaps it would be best if I explain,” the goblin volunteered.

“Please, good goblin,” Madam Bones requested, pulling a headache potion out of her robes.

“It’s quite simple, Minister Fudge and honored members of Wizengamot,” the goblin said in a lecturing tone of voice. “In the wizard world there are a set number of Galleon, Sickle and Knuts, and the amount of coins each nation has is based on the number of people and their wealth which allows them to buy and sell with other wizard nations. Now if we suddenly remove a large number of coins from one nation and give it to another we upset the delicate balance that allows the economy to flourish.”

Fudge shook his head. “I still don’t understand.”

The goblin sighed and mentally shifted to his Gringotts training subject 0001a. “Alright let’s say that you have 100 Bertie Botts beans, Madam Bones has 125 beans and Dumbledore has 75 beans.”

“Why does Madam Bones have more Bertie Botts beans than me? After all I’m the Minister of Magic,” Fudge grumbled.

“Because Madam Bones represents another wizard nation that has a larger pool of wealth while Dumbledore is a poorer nation. You, Minister Fudge represent Britain in this example,” the goblin explained patiently.

“Oh well… that’s a good thing. Go on,” Fudge said with an imperious wave of his hand to indicate that the goblin should continue.

“Now nations will trade things among themselves. For example Minister Fudge will give Madam Bones 75 Bertie Botts beans in exchange for some fresh fruit and vegetables which can’t be grown here,” the goblin explained. “And Minister Fudge will also give Dumbledore 25 Bertie Botts beans for potion ingredients.”

“That leaves me without any Bertie Botts beans,” Fudge announced with a pout.

“Yes and we’ll get to that in a moment. Madam Bones at the same time will then buy 50 beans worth of potion ingredients from Dumbledore and 75 beans worth of brooms from Minister Fudge. Finally, Dumbledore will buy 25 beans worth of brooms from Minister Fudge and 50 beans worth of vegetables from Madam Bones. In the end after buying and selling you still have 100 beans, Minister Fudge, while Madam Bones and Dumbledore have the same amount they started with too.”

“Alright,” Fudge said slowly as he tried to figure things out.

“So now Mr. Potter has come along and removed 45 beans from your pile, so you only have 55 beans left but you still need 100 Bertie Botts beans to buy everything you need,” the goblin said.

Fudge’s brow was furrowed with thought. “So I have to buy my fruits and vegetable first then after Madam Bones and Dumbledore buys their brooms, I can buy the potion ingredients,” Fudge stated thoughtfully.

“Except Dumbledore won’t buy your brooms until he has enough Bertie Botts beans from you purchasing the ingredients first,” the goblin explained.

“So I buy from Dumbledore first then after he buy the brooms I buy the food,” Fudge said.

“But Dumbledore still won’t have enough beans since he also needs the ones he gets from Madam Bones which she gets from you when you buy the fruits and vegetables,” the goblin explained as he could see that Fudge and Wizengamot member were finally getting it.

“So that means we have to cut back the amount of food and potion ingredients,” one of the seated Wizengamot members commented.

“Yes! Which mean Madam Bones and Dumbledore will buy less brooms from Minister Fudge which mean he has to lay off the people working for him,” the goblin replied happily. “Which means the people will be unhappy with Minister Fudge since they’re not making any money that they could spend on food, potion ingredients or on brooms.”

“And we all know what happen when people have nothing to do, no money and no food in their stomachs,” Lady Longbottom commented with a serious look of dread on her face.

“We do?” one of the Wizengamot members sounded puzzled.

“They go after the ones that caused their problems,” Lady Longbottom replied.

“They’ll go after Potter?” Fudge said happily.

“No, Minister Fudge,” the goblin replied. “They will go after you and the other members of the Wizengamot as you are all the ones in charge and allowed this to happen.”

“Oh… perhaps a recess is in order,” Fudge said nervously.

“There is one thing else you should know before you go on your… recess,” the goblin said with an evil smirk. “All the Wizengamot member accounts are currently being audited and therefore your funds are frozen until we’re done.”

“How long will that take?” Fudge said with a squeak.

“Oh about three, four, possibly six weeks,” the goblin replied.

“Six weeks!” Fudge gasped.

“Maybe more,” the goblin said happily.

Fudge grasped his heart, realizing he wouldn’t have his tidy bag of gold come payday.

“Wait!” yelled a newer Wizengamot member who was in the upper chairs instead of near the floor. “Why is there an investigation happening? Who ordered that? I know I didn’t!”

The goblin nodded his head indicating that he understood the wizard. “As you are aware, Gringotts is bound by treaty to uncover any cases of malfeasance within any branch of the Wizarding government that it does business with. As such, we have just found out that one of your Wizengamot members has been restricted from attending these sessions for over a decade, which is not only against tradition, but against your Wizengamot law. At this member’s request, we have activated an auditing team to investigate why.”

“Who requested this?” Madam Bones was sure the goblin was going to say Harry Potter in some capacity if what she heard from her niece was any indicator.

“Sirius Black,” the goblin stated simply. “Also known as Harry Potter’s godfather.”

Yep, Amelia thought. Harry Potter. She chugged her headache relieving potion.

“He’s not a Wizengamot member!” snarled Umbridge. “He’s a convicted murderer! He can’t hold a seat!”

“Untrue,” came the immediate response from the still-grinning goblin. “He is an accused murderer. Not a convicted murderer. He never received a trial. That was the first thing we checked when he requested legal assistance. And because he never received a trial, we are also auditing all Auror cases for the past two decades. All Auror funds are also locked down for the foreseeable future.”

“We’re doomed,” Fudge said for everyone.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
A comment in the last chapter warranted further explanation. In the original story, Adam Pierson was used as the lawyer Harry employed to turn the kids into wards of the Crown. I honestly forgot the first name “Adam” in that earlier chapter and instead used a name I thought of: “Paul”. It turns out Adam Pierson is one of the aliases of Methos from the Highlander TV show. Per Lydia2:

In general, he’s portrayed as hmm...cheeky! Basically, Methos is about 5000 years old but adapts readily to the time period and so is able to pretend to be a new immortal sometimes. He actually gets away with pretending to be pre-immortal for a while in the show. Anyway, one if his famous lines is that he’s been a doctor, lawyer and Indian chief. He goes by various names over the years, and Adam Pierson is his most recent, in which he is a grad student, a Watcher, and maybe a teacher (mostly I have read the fanfiction so some of this may be iffy, I haven’t seen the show in years!). He had insinuated himself into the Watchers and worked in the Methos Chronicles, which supposedly document his life, at least as far as anyone can tell since he has only occasionally been identified as such, hence the adjective cheeky. Eventually something happened to reveal him as immortal, but he convinced everyone that he was a new immortal so he lost his job but wasn’t killed for knowing too much because they thought he hadn’t known before (gasp shock woe is me!) Yadda. Anyway, when he shows up in the show, and is revealed as Methos, he mostly acts like an immature moocher, then it comes out that he was actually Death of the four horsemen who were running around centuries earlier and various dramatic things happen. Mostly when he pops up in crossovers, he’s getting away from Macleod and using various skills that he’s picked up over the years and enjoying getting one over people who act too controlling, i.e. helping Harry out with the Wizengamot.

 **Steve2 update:** I have since changed “Paul” back to “Adam”. Maybe Adam will show up later in this story, maybe not. If anyone has any ideas, shoot them over to me. Thank you, Lydia2 for your catch and your comments. I had no idea that Adam was an Easter Egg in the original story.

And speaking of Easter Eggs… have anyone been keeping track of the ones I’ve put in?

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	7. Shafting Fudge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fudge gets the shaft

**Author’s Notes:**  
In 2007, the author DisobedienceWriter wrote the story “A Bad Week at the Wizengamot”. That is a crackfic very much in tune with this story. Harry gets shafted in his trial, leaves Britain, and causes a lot of havoc in his departure. This story is only 3 chapters long and the first chapter concentrated on what happened with Fudge and how everything went to hell in a handbasket. At the end of that chapter Fudge was sent to prison for what he did. I’ve always felt that Fudge has gotten off lightly for all that he allowed to happen in all the stories I’ve read. This, then, is my take on Fudge’s situation. He will not be going to Azkaban at the end of this chapter. That would be too easy for him. No, instead he will get something worse. Oh so much worse.

It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

 **Personal note:**  
It has been longer than I wished to post this chapter after posting the last chapter. True, there were the holidays to consider. But I encountered something else as well. It is something I call the Hockey Effect. I do not play hockey. That did not stop me from losing one of my two big front teeth. I have a selfie from the dentist chair. It is quite disgusting. The inside of my mouth looks like the outside of Frankenstein’s monster. Roots and all had to go. The only upside is that every time my daughter gives me grief about brushing her teeth I have started whipping out that selfie with a stern message that that this is what can happen you her if she doesn’t brush her teeth. I do brush my teeth and this wasn’t a problem with brushing. None whatsoever. But she doesn’t need to know that.

**-o0o-**

September 2nd continuation

Minister Fudge shuffled into his office and sat down in his chair with a defeated slump. “Doomed,” he muttered, putting his hands over his eyes. “We’re doomed.”

“Ahem,” said a voice.

Fudge, eyes puffy as he dried the non-existent tears as Ministers do not cry. “What?” he said aloud, not bothering to look around.

“Your presence has been requested by the Prime Minister,” the communications painting said.

“What? Since when do I report to him? You are to take messages to him from us, not the other way around,” Fudge snarked, still upset from the Wizengamot meeting.

“He is a leader, while you are a politician. My duty is to ensure,” it started.

“Your duty is to pass messages from me to who I tell you to!” Fudge roared, still upset with what the Goblin had informed everyone.

“You know, screw this! You either get your fat ass over to the Prime Minister’s office, or I let him know you’re being a dick. And then I start telling the other paintings you’re being a dick. See if you can get any minister support after that. Dick!”

Fudge knew that if he didn’t have support of the paintings, he would never be told when the lunchroom was empty so that he could get, ahem, “free” lunches when workers weren’t looking.

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Fudge acknowledged.

**-o0o-**

Soon enough, Fudge floo’d into the PM’s office. His bowler hat on correctly with a sticking charm, his robes looking impeccable (despite the lousy day he was having), and an aloof attitude plastered to his face as was becoming the Minister for Magic, Fudge announced his presence. “Prime Minister? I am… I say, what are you doing?”

Fudge had expected to show up in the PM’s office with only the Prime Minister there, as he had every other time he’d had to appear. That wasn’t the case this time. Instead, there were two beefy men in blue muggle suits, wearing shaded eyeglasses who stretched his arms out to his side as soon as he was in the room.

“Here you are, sir,” one of the men said, handing over Fudge’s seldom-used wand.

“He’s clean now,” the other man said. They then both stepped back but did not leave the room.

“I say, what’s.”

“Shut up, Fudge,” Prime Minister John Major instructed. “Take off that stupid robe and put this jacket on. We have an appointment in a few minutes.”

“With whom?” Fudge stated, still in shock from having to take his robe off and wear that horrible looking blue blazer.

“The Queen. Get a move on. The car is waiting.”

**-o0o-**

Soon enough, Cornelius Fudge and the PM, John Major were escorted to an audience with the Queen in Buckingham Palace. Normally, the PM and the Queen would meet in the room weekly to discuss affairs of state. This time, Fudge was also in attendance, along with four special bodyguards for the Queen. These four individuals took position in each corner of the room.

“We would hear your explanation of what happened with the Sirius Black fiasco, Mr. Fudge,” the Queen immediately said once introductions made.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Two years ago, your people requested assistance from Us in locating a dangerous mass killer by the name of Sirius Black. Our people found him recently but when evidence of his guilt was requested, nothing was delivered. Why is that?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Fudge’s political sense of self-preservation kicked into overdrive.

The Queen sighed and John Major used smaller words for the imbecile. “Was Sirius Black guilty of murder?”

“Yes,” Fudge beamed.

“How do you know?”

“He escaped from prison! It’s common knowledge that he was guilty.”

“Was he given a trial?” John Major grilled.

“Oh yes! Well… maybe. I’m not really sure. This happened during the previous administration.”

“Sirius Black was captured last month. We requested his trial transcripts but nothing was delivered in a timely manner. He was let go after that since we had no reason to detain him. What does that mean to you?”

“That the trial records were mislaid by the previous administration?” Fudge pushed the blame onto someone else.

“We are not happy with the Ministry of Magic, Mr. Fudge,” the Queen stated firmly. “There seems to be blatant mismanagement. As such, you will have all your people in your Ministry offices in three days’ time as We will be doing an inspection to see what and how Our magical subjects are doing to shore up the Crown.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but the Ministry of Magic is only for magicals and that muggles can’t come in.”

Fudge stopped talking as the Queen motioned to one of her bodyguards. He quickly came up and pulled out a scroll. “Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Pursuant to section 16, subsection 22 of the Secrecy Charter put into place August 23, 1215, the Crown, which in this case is the Queen, has dominion over everything in England and its lands, including its magical citizens. She has the right to…” He stopped as the Queen waved him to cease.

“We have a right to inspect the Magical Ministry and if need be, change it. Are We understood, Mr. Fudge?”

“Yes ma’am. My apologies. I had meant to say that only magicals can gain access and entrance to the Ministry of Magic.”

“We will not have a problem with that, Mr. Fudge,” the Queen said simply.

Fudge was sweating as he was further dressed down by the Queen. One of her bodyguards in the room, Chester McLintok, thought it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. He was a muggle-born magical from the class of 1961, and had graduated a year after Fudge left Hogwarts. He remembered all six years he had been at Hogwarts during the same time as Fudge. He also remembered Fudgey tormenting him and other muggle-borns all the time. He was looking forward to the inspection. He hoped someone would try something. After all, even if he hadn’t had a chance to use his wand in a bit, he still held a marksman rating on the pistol range.

**-o0o-**

Minister Fudge sat down in his office chair with a defeated slump. “Doomed,” he muttered, putting his hands over his eyes. “We’re doomed.”

“Cornelius?” said a voice.

Hands still covering his eyes, he replied with a resigned “What?”

The short, squat, sweating form of Dolores Umbridge entered the office and made her way over to his desk. “What is the matter, Cornelius? Surely the Ministry can weather this storm,” she said in a just-less-than a nails-on-a-chalkboard voice.

“This is all Potter’s fault,” he announced, hands coming off his eyes.

“Of course it is, Corny,” she agreed.

“Dolores, you know I don’t like that name.”

“Yes, Minister,” she deferred.

“But this is all that blasted brat’s fault. Purebloods enslaved. Goblins running wild. Wizengamot members missing. The Queen doing an inspection in three days. But worst of all… because of those blasted Goblins, I’m not going to have my tidy bag o’ gold come payday.”

There was more complaining along with more lamenting about the loss of bags o’ gold, as well as further clarifications on the silly nonsense of the muggle Queen vising a magical facility.

“Minister,” Dolores practically purred in a garbage-shredder way, “you leave it to me and I’ll make it all better.”

“Okay,” he agreed readily.

**-o0o-**

Sept 5th 10am

Several unrecognizable cars stopped on a street near a non-working phone booth. Several guards got out and established a secure perimeter. Soon enough the Queen exited one of the vehicles and entered the phone booth along with several guards. She looked at the phone.

“Now how does this foolishness work?”

**-o0o-**

Minister Fudge opened his office door and looked at his secretary. “Brenda, have you seen Dolores?”

“No sir,” replied his secretary who was definitely not named Brenda. “No one has seen her in days.”

“Blast!” he replied, slamming the door. “Where is that wom… er… person?!”

His door opened.

“Dolores?” he started.

Several bodyguards entered and inspected his office. One of them took Fudge’s wand again. Soon, two more bodyguards came in and took up positions in the corners of his office. He was so fixated on these blokes that he missed it when the Queen entered his office.

“Mr. Fudge,” the Queen began. “We are here to perform an inspection as you were informed by Us. Assemble your staff.”

Fudge looked at her with dread.

**-o0o-**

In short order, all available directors and managers were in an expanded conference room. Most had no idea what was up as Fudge had never informed anyone that an inspection was forthcoming. This was due to him never really thinking the Queen would make it into the Ministry of Magic.

“Cornelius,” began one irate director, who was still miffed that he hadn’t been paid yet this week more than the Minister dragging him to another useless meeting. “What is going on and who are these people?”

“Um… er… that is to say,” he started.

“We are Queen Elizabeth the second. We are your monarch here in the British Isles.”

“Who?” asked several wizards to one another.

“We informed Mr. Fudge that We would be coming today as We intend to inspect this Ministry to see if its charter is to be retained. We are now here yet none of you seem prepared for Our visit.” Fudge winced. “No matter. We will be doing an inspection now of all departments.”

“Now see here! We’re in the middle of a crisis here and don’t need nor want some jumped-up muggle who thinks she can say what we do or don’t do is good or not.”

“Quite right, Roderick! You tell her! How did you even get into the ministry to begin with? You don’t have any magic!”

“We have our ways, sir. We take it then that you refuse to go forward with this inspection and follow the orders of, as you say, a muggle?”

“Damned right!” Roderick snarled back. As did three other directors. After all, they thought, who was this muggle to tell them what to do?

“We understand your position, gentlemen. None of you wish to take direction from Us. Therefore, you are all dismissed immediately. With cause.” As she spoke, ancient magic activated. The Royal House held the ultimate authority on magicals when they were employed by any government office within Britain. Separation was fine, but duty was duty. The magicals and royals knew this 900 years ago, when they wrote the Secrecy charter. Queen Elizabeth II knew this. However, the current magicals seemed to have forgotten this.

The ex-directors that had refused to follow the Queen’s orders found themselves forced to stand up and march out of the Ministry not realizing that ancient magic was forcing them to vacate the current magical government offices. No matter what they wanted otherwise, they could not stop marching out until they hit the sidewalk outside the telephone box. And once there, they noticed other muggles wearing similar outfits next to the Queen. Figuring they were at fault, they pulled their wands to exact some feeble revenge. The four men were quickly tackled to the ground by the other bodyguards, had their wands snapped, were cuffed, and later picked up by a police van. They were then booked as vagrants and left to stew in jail as they didn’t know how to contact any family members via something these weird muggles called “a phone”. All their requests for a fireplace were rebuffed as the police station had something called “central heating” whatever that was.

**-o0o-**

Arthur Weasley had no qualms with talking with the Queen. In fact, he was most happy to discuss what he and his department did. It also gave him a chance to quiz the Queen about eleketricity.

Queen Elizabeth held up her hand for him to stop. “Mr. Weasley. We realize you are a passionate man with your position, but we would emphasize that pulling plugs out of a house could lead you to get electrocuted.”

Arthur nodded his head in agreement with the Queen’s wishes. He had no desire to be electrocuted. Again.

Fudge, escorting the Queen and guards to the next appointment, raised his eyebrow to indicate he was thinking the same thing. Only… what was a plug? Or eleketricity?

**-o0o-**

Amelia Bones, the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was perfectly upfront with her views when she said, “Your Majesty. It is a pleasure to meet you. I wish I had been informed you were going to show up today by the moron we call a Minister for Magic. What would you like to know?”

Amelia pointed out the shrinking force, the lack of resources, and the fact they were not currently prosecuting any cases as all funding had been frozen at Gringotts based off the actions initiated by Mr. Harry Potter and his godfather.

“And how has that impacted your performance or that of your department?” said the Queen.

“Truthfully, crime has decreased for now, but will most likely increase again once the realization that the Auror force is inactive makes its way to the criminal elements,” Amelia stated simply.

“We understand.”

**-o0o-**

The Head of the Unspeakables met Minister Fudge, the Queen and her people at the door to his office. He brought them all in where the Queen saw only a desk, a chair, and a framed picture of a flower.

The Queen got right to the point. “What do you and your team do?”

“We research. We watch. We advise,” Unspeakable Croaker said mysteriously.

“Who do you advise?”

“That is a secret, unfortunately. I cannot tell you.”

“Cannot? Or will not? You may not lie to Us,” the Queen instructed, her eyebrow arched.

Croaker seemed to struggle for a moment before realizing it was futile. “Will not, your Majesty,” he admitted.

“Why?”

Unspeakable Croaker didn’t even bother to fight the compulsion. “Some of what we work on is straight out of nightmares.”

“And the rest?”

“It is how we generate funding for our department, ma’am.”

“Explain, now,” she commanded.

“The Unspeakables are a group of 25 individuals at any given time who are dedicated to understanding the mysteries of the universe, but in order to keep this cushy assignment, we do some actual magical research now and then as well as work with companies and think-tanks to generate toy ideas for kids. The Monster Action Pals was a big hit four Christmases ago. It was a plushy that had a monster voice come out when you squeezed its hand. We get a percentage of all profits for the department which we invest for when we have budget shortfalls.”

“And you invest your funds from this venture how?”

“Either doubling down or putting it on red at the Empire Casino in Leicester Square.”

Fudge face-palmed.

**-o0o-**

The Department of Magical Transportation, Floo Network office was headed by Madam Edgecombe.

“Oh yes, muggle Queenie. We handle all Floo connections within England. You see, they must be lit with special matches which is how our department gets the majority of its funding. True, we also handle the floo powder for transporting, but it is the matches that are our best seller.”

“Wouldn’t a fireplace normally be active all the time?” the Queen inquired.

“Ha, ha, that’s just it, your muggle Queenness. A magical fireplace only stays lit for a specific amount of time. The rest of the time it is dormant and waiting for the next access to it. That is where our matches come in. You see, most of those matches don’t actually work. We figured the people would buy more special matches if half them didn’t work, so we douse them in a pail of water before sending them out via owl order,” she grinned at the ingenuity.

“And the ones that do work?”

“Oh, those are doused with a special liquid that I’m sure your muggleness wouldn’t understand.”

“You would be surprised at what We understand,” the Queen stated. “Answer Our question.”

“Uh sure. It’s Arithmancy mixed with runes and potions.” Seeing the Queen’s stare hadn’t lessened, Madam Edgecombe decided to baffle the muggles with her magical superiority. “Uh, it’s hydrocarbons with between 4 and 12 carbon atoms per molecule, commonly referred to as C4-C12. It is a mixture of paraffins (or alkanes), cycloalkanes (or naphthenes), and olefins (or alkenes),” she stated in a smug tone.

The Queen’s guard to her right leaned in and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Those are typical chemical properties of gasoline, your highness.”

**-o0o-**

The Stir Stick Samplers department was headed by one of the wizards already sacked. This department had five employees and a department head. They tested stir sticks which would be used for potion ingredients. They did this in a cauldron of water, which wasn’t even over a fire.

“We are wondering why not at least make sure the stir sticks can hold up to a fire-heated water.”

“Um, well, Your Majesty, once burned, twice shy,” was the most succinct answer she received.

**-o0o-**

The Cauldron Samplers department was where the Queen found that 16 attractive witches worked for one wizard. The witches were to look at the cauldrons while the wizard oversaw the department camera. They didn’t test the cauldrons themselves to make sure they worked to specifications, but instead tested them to ensure other witches and wizards would enjoy having their pictures taken with it for future advertisements.

“In short, you are telling Us that this department consists of witches whose sole duty is to be… eye candy?”

**-o0o-**

The Misuse of Funds Department was an eye-opener for Minister Fudge. Director Ethan Hawkins IV was actually the 5th generation family member who had been heading that department since its creation 210 years ago. Originally tasked with rooting out the misuse of funds, the Hawkins family quickly found out that when they brought it to the then-minister’s attention, it was determined that slight misuse was okay since it allowed the then-minister to get a then-small kickback to his vault from the extra amounts he had to get approved to cover the misuse to begin with.

Before the Queen could ask her questions, Fudge snapped, “You mean to tell me this department has been in existence for over 200 years?”

“Yes sir,” was the reply.

“And how much, ah, misuse is found on a weekly basis?”

“Oh, uh, enough to keep this department solvent, sir.”

“What?!”

“The small kickbacks we get from the other departments and contracts allows us to remain solvent as Minister Woodward Burnstein in 1865 defunded this department, but did not actually dissolve this department.”

That was an eye-opener for Fudge. All that time this department was around and he was not getting any assistance to his vault from it.

**-o0o-**

The next department they spent the least amount of time in.

“Minister?”

“Minister?”

“And you are?” Fudge prompted, not recalling either of their names.

“Ryan McNeil,” said the first wizard.

“And Bryan McNeil,” said the second wizard. “We are the co-directors of the Redundancy-Redundancy Department.”

“Do tell,” the Queen indicated to continue.

“Oh, yes, Your Majesty. We are the official department for twins! Identical of course.”

“We would have you tell us what it is you do.”

“We research Twin-Power!”

Fudge face-palmed yet again.

**-o0o-**

Around noon, the Queen, her guards, and Fudge returned to his office.

“We have our summation of this Ministry, Mr. Fudge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, slightly miffed that his Senior Undersecretary was still missing. She would have stopped this he was sure of it.

“We have seen what we expected to see, Mr. Fudge,” she started.

“That’s good, right?”

“No, Mr. Fudge. It certainly is not. We are not happy with the state of affairs in this Ministry.” The Queen went on to tell Fudge how displeased she was in no uncertain terms. Sloth, incompetence, and downright fraud were epithets she used frequently.

“In short, Mr. Fudge, We expect you to clean up yours and this Ministry’s act within 30 days or We will nullify the Secrecy charter and reabsorb the magical government back into Our government.”

“You can’t do that!” Fudge protested.

“We most certainly can. You will find that We can do a great many things.”

“But… but the charter allowed us autonomy.”

“It did,” the Queen agreed. “Provided certain conditions were met. These conditions are not being met now. Fix it or you will be out on your ear. With cause!”

**-o0o-**

The door closed behind the Queen and her staff. Fudge was not a happy camper. No siree. How was he to change? And just where was that blasted Senior Undersecretary? She was supposed to have stopped all this! Blast! And double blast!

As Minister Fudge sat at his desk, his head in his hands (as usual), he did not notice his filing cabinet slide aside and his Senior Undersecretary walk into his office through the seldom-used escape tunnel. The same tunnel that was last used 92 years earlier when budget cuts were last announced and irate workers wanted to burn more than just an effigy of the then-minister.

“Hem, hem. Corny?” prompted his Senior Undersecretary.

Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge’s head snapped up to a sight he had hoped never to see in his worst nightmare. The short, squat woman who constantly wore pink and resembled nothing more than a large pale toad with her broad, flabby face with its wide, slack mouth and tiny neck (not that you could see it as it was covered with several chin layers) had always tried to convey a sense of professionalism at least when in the office. Well, some professionalism clothes-wise that is. That was not the case any longer.

Oh no, not at all. As Dolores Umbridge entered the office she no longer wore pink robes, or a pink dress, or a pink cardigan or anything resembling normal clothing. Instead, the short, squat, flabby faced toad of a woman was wearing lacy knickers, a lacy bra, black lacy gloves, and black stockings. The gloves covered her thick, stubby fingers which were more man-hands than woman-hands. The stockings had seemed to rip when they had been put on, were repaired, and then ripped again as she walked. They looked as if years old even though he was sure they were a recent acquisition. The bra barely contained whatever skin they covered. And the knickers… well, he thought, better not even go there.

“Madam Umbridge,” Cornelius tried the formality track. “Where have you been?”

She sauntered into the office and put the pole she brought with her into a locked position from floor to ceiling. “Oh, I had to run to Azkaban for an errand, Corny.”

The rolls of fat glistened as she huffed and puffed to lock the pole in place.

“Azkaban? You know, never mind. Why aren’t you dressed in real clothes like your station demands?” he barked, trying to focus on something else than her machinations of that damn pole. But it was like a broom-rider accident when two flyers hit overhead and dropped to the ground in a helpless, bloody heap. The same concept that stated you knew you shouldn’t look on their misery, pain, and suffering and instead go get help, but you were gobsmacked at the same time. It was horrible in a mesmerizing way.

“Oh,” Dolores Umbridge nearly croaked out, fanning her hand to her face. “Those clothes were making me too hot. I needed to change out of them. Whew. Is it hot in here, or is that just you? Ha ha!”

“Dolores,” Cornelius started, a horrific thought popping into his head. It was if Dolores… liked him.

“Oh, don’t mind me. You know, I had you in mind when I came up with this little number. I call it Pole Dance Number 1. Get ready to get your groove on, Corny!”

To the beat of unheard music, Dolores Umbridge, Senior Secretary for the Minister for Magic began her gyrations around the pole. Cornelius couldn’t look away, the look of horror growing on his face as he realized that he was now involved somehow in that hypothetical broom-flyer accident. He had been on one broom and now Dolores was on the other. Only… she wasn’t flying. She was dancing. And stripping.

No. No, don’t take off the knickers! Nooooooooooo!

“My eyes! My eyes! Oh sweet Merlin! I can’t un-see that! Oh the humanity!”

**-o0o-**

As Dolores Umbridge entered Fudge’s office, the Queen stopped at the occupied desk just outside his office. The name ‘Mrs. Betty White’ (no relation) was listed on a small name plate on the front of the desk.

“Mrs. White,” the Queen said to a now-standing Mrs. White.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“How long have you worked in this Ministry?”

“Thirty-two years and 4 months, ma’am.”

“A long time then,” she agreed. “We would have your thoughts on the Ministry’s operations here.”

Betty had been employed at the Ministry for a long time. She knew when to keep her mouth shut, when to tell whichever manager or director what they wanted to know, and when to give honest feedback. It was as much a survival trait as a skill learned the hard way. She knew instantly that honest feedback was required.

“Well, Your Majesty, there is a lot of dead weight here. This Ministry’s function seems to be a place of employment for people too damn lazy to do something with themselves. There are currently 612 people working for the Ministry. This entire Ministry can be handled by 32 people other than the Aurors, the hitwizards, and a few of those useless Unspeakables. There are also seasonal appointments that could come and go. I use several of these temps now when a particular department gets too far behind in whatever foolishness they are engaged in instead of doing the work that needs to be done.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Better continued. “The rest are a drain. There are those who are employed here as political appointments for the unambitious. There seem to be hundreds that fall into this category. These are the biggest fucking wastes of space around. Pardon my language.”

“Understandable, Mrs. White. Thank you for speaking your honest opinion. Would you be interested in a new position here?”

“A new position?”

“Yes, Mrs. White. We have need of a Royal wizarding representative within this Ministry for the time being. Are you interested?”

Betty didn’t hesitate as she knew more about Queen and Country than most magicals. “Absolutely, Your Majesty.”

“Very well. Expect to be contacted by the Prime Minister in the near future…”

“My eyes! My eyes! Oh sweet Merlin! I can’t un-see that! Oh the humanity!” came loud shouting from Fudge’s door.

All those there turned to the door. “What does that mean, Mrs. White?” said the Queen.

“I have no idea, ma’am. But knowing him, I’m sure it is something stupid.”

“Yes,” the Queen agreed. “We believe you are quite right on that.”

**-o0o-**

September 6th

Cornelius Fudge woke up in his bed. His big, fluffy bed. The bed he got with the proceeds that his good friend Lucius Malfoy gave him upon accepting the nomination for Minister for Magic years ago. He felt the comfort of his linens. His pillow. He blinked a few times to get the cobwebs out. He looked over at the window. The sun was coming up over the trees. Morning. Cornelius let out a long breath.

It had been a dream. All a horrible, horrible dream.

“Corny?” said a smarmy toad-like voice. “You up for another round?”

In a horrified hurry, Cornelius looked over at the last sight he ever wanted to see. A naked Umbridge.

In his bed!

“My eyes! My eyes! I will never be able to un-see that! Again! What did I ever do to deserve this?!”

Cornelius Fudge had never uttered a prophecy before that day. However, his words that morning turned out to be truer than he thought. After kicking a naked Umbridge out of his home, he went to scrub himself clean. Only… he still saw a naked Umbridge haunting his vision which in turn caused him to cut his face repeatedly as he strove to see past bits of… skin (as it were) that the vision-Umbridge showed him.

In his office, he still had visions. At lunch, he still had these haunting visions. It was a curse, he thought. He needed to get rid of the curse. He went to all the departments he could think of to remove that curse. None found him under a curse. But then again, they weren’t looking that hard as they still hadn’t gotten paid.

Day turned to night, and days turned to weeks. Still those blasted visions persisted. He had to do something. He had dropped weight as he couldn’t eat with that blasted creat… er… wom… er… Senior Undersecretary grinning at him while doing strip-tease after strip-tease. In an act of desperation, he consulted several professional obliviators. They told him that they would be able to excise those memories no problem. The first one did a wham-bam job on his memories, and he forgot everything from September 2nd forward.

Except… for some reason there was the Senior Undersecretary doing a strip-tease in his head. How did that happen?! And… wait… in bed with her too?! Gaaaahhhhh!

The second, third, and even the fourth obliviators continued to do wham-bam jobs on his memories. They were very good with their craft, but even they had to admit that doing that many memory spells that close together was a risky gambit. But directions from the minister were still directions, so “Obliviate!”

By the end of September, Cornelius Fudge was out of a job. Not that he knew it of course. He had been obliviated so many times that his memories and core faculty to be a minister had been wiped out. Yet, for some reason there was this strange fat woman doing strip-tease after strip-tease in front of his mind’s eye. It left him haunted. He could not hold down a job. Heck, he could barely remember how to speak.

He did know enough to stick anything edible into his mouth and chew, so did remain alive for another 22 years. All the while seeing Dolores Umbridge (a woman he was sure he had never met before – after all, he would have remembered it, right?) try to do pole dancing and strip-teasing for his enjoyment. Only it was not enjoyment. It was torture.

On a cold, rainy day in November, 2017, Cornelius Fudge found some sort of fish on the beach in Brighton. He put it in his mouth, ready to suck the fishy stuff off the crunchy inside thingies. The partially alive fish did not like being ingested and resisted as much as it could. This struggle blocked Fudge from being able to take a breath into his lungs. He suffocated a few minutes later with a fish tail hanging out of his mouth.

Cornelius got up off the ground, but, his body was still there. What had happened? Wait. He remembered. He had been the Minister for Magic years ago. Then… something happened. Now he was dead. No, wait. He was a ghost! He could haunt! Whew, he thought. That was preferable to what he had been seeing for the past several decades.

An image flashed before Fudge’s eyes. It was a ghostly-Dolores or even a vision-Dolores doing her oh-so-wrong version of a pole dance that led to her stripping, that led to her taking him to bed! Noooooo! The visions had returned, and worse, he now had context with content!

He was doomed to see that for a long time in the afterlife, much to his dismay.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
Hey Steve, you say, what’s with the total shift in Umbridge’s character? WTF is that all about? My response: yes, changing her character was intentional and falls in line with what happens next. The next chapter will explain how and why there was a shift in Umbridge. She too will be getting the shaft. And keep in mind, there were several days covered with this chapter.

One last thing: How many of you got the second meaning of this chapter’s title?

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	8. Shafting Umbridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to really shaft Umbridge? This is a good start.

**Author’s Note:**  
This chapter is what started my thinking of doing a rewrite of this entire story. It was actually the first one I plotted.

It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

**September 2nd continuation**

Dolores was not having a good month, and the month had only just started. It was, she knew, all because of that horrible, horrible child. That Harry Potter. If only he’d had the good graces to die when she’d sent the dementors to his home. But no, the little brat had lived.

Fortunately, she had had a backup plan set in place and with his magic detected in a muggle neighborhood, it was a simple matter of getting him convicted of underage magic and snapping his wand. Good riddance to bad rubbish she had thought. But somehow that brat had managed to kidnap entire important pureblood families. She wasn’t sure how he had done it, but was sure that those greedy little goblin monsters were involved somehow. She would ensure something was done to them as well once this current mess had been taken care of.

She was sure Cornelius could have resolved it; after all, he was the Minister of Magic. What he said was law. Or paramount to law. Whatever. Basically, what he said was good enough for her. And she could tell he wanted those pureblood families returned and the profits those greedy goblins illegally stole returned. And she knew who was responsible for it all and where the little brat lived. It was, after all, a matter of the court record.

After leaving Cornelius… no, make that: Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic in England, the place where all magic in the world began, Dolores Umbridge shook those thoughts aside and hurried back to her office. A few meters from her door, she was accosted by that unimportant research clerk, Jason Dredge. Yes, she was accosted by that man! She, who was the Senior Undersecretary!

“Madam Umbridge,” Jason blurted out as he interrupted her womanly gait to her office.

“Yes, underling?” she replied, oblivious as usual to her own casual insults as Mr. Dredge backpedaled from being in the same space as the squat, toad of a woman who had been shuffling to her office.

“Payday was yesterday, Madam. None of us in MR&D were paid. We want to know why and what you are doing about it.”

“You should be grateful that you have a job, worm,” she grunted out irritably, much like Jason had expected her to since he’d had the unpleasant task of interacting with her before.

“Hard to be grateful when you don’t get paid, lady,” the miscreant insulted her. Her! The Senior Undersecretary of Magic. He needed to learn his place.

“You will get back to work or you’ll be fired,” she snarled, thinking that would shut the lowlife up.

“No pay, no work. But I’ll get that that pitchfork, tar and feathers warmed up for you. Me and the gang will be waiting. You have until tomorrow. At noon. Got it, Senior Undersecretary Bitch?”

After insulting her, the miscreant had the audacity to not even wait to be dismissed by her before turning and stomping off. Probably to return to his little cavern, the troll that he and his fellows are, she thought.

She made her way to her office, locked the door behind her and sat at her desk to relieve the aching sore feet she had these days. While rubbing a potion into the skin, she did realize that bribes had dried up over the past few days, and needed to figure out a way to replace that lost income. She would devote all her energy to it once this crisis was over. She pulled a desk drawer open, rummaged under all the papers in there, which were themselves under several pictures of her cats, the Cute Kitty Trio she reflected with a satisfied smirk. Soon enough she found a small silver necklace holding a two-inch circular disk on it. She put the necklace on, hid it under her shawl, and left the Ministry.

A few minutes later she was back in the Ministry as she had forgotten to get a Ministry-regulated portkey. She grabbed one of those, ignored the complaints of the office drones insisting they get paid or else, and then left the Ministry. Again.

**-o0o-**

It was nearly two hours later that Dolores walked up the path to Azkaban prison. It was an awful place. Only the wretched deserved to be there, she knew. People like that Sirius Black. And that brat, Harry Potter. If she’d had her way… well, maybe she would, she allowed her ire to feed more thoughts. She had been giving into more of those thoughts since she’d had to wait, her – the Undersecretary – yes, she had had to wait for someone to come to the dock and bring her to this wretched island. She knew they should have been waiting for her.

She pounded on the prison gates.

Again, she had to wait. This was just another demonstration of how slipshod things had come under a lax rule. When she was minister…

“Who is it?!” yelled a voice from the other side.

“Hem, hem,” she started.

“Oh, it’s you!” the same voice replied, opening the gate. “You bring our pay? We didn’t get paid yesterday.”

“The Ministry is working on it,” she buffaloed. “I need access to the dementors.”

“What? Again?”

“Yes,” she snarled. Couldn’t that simpleton see she was a busy, and desirable woman who was on a tight schedule? Honestly!

“Fine. Second door on the right. Your funeral,” he replied, hoping it would be her funeral. Bloody dementors never sucked out the souls of their kin, no matter how many times he’d wanted them to snatch this toad’s. Maybe she didn’t have a soul, he mused as the pink lady shuffled to the indicated room.

Madam Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, opened the indicated door and saw four dementors sitting around a break table playing cards. She had absolutely no idea what they were playing as it was unimportant in the land of Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary.

After shutting the door behind her, she pulled out the medallion she put on earlier, held it up close to her lips and said, “Hem, hem. You messed up… why isn’t this thing hissing?” Dolores immediately employed the age-old fix-it method of smacking the medallion with her pudgy hand. The smack seemed to take.

“Hem, hem,” she restarted. “You all messed up getting that Potter brat,” she snarled into the medallion. The medallion itself was hissing as she was talking.

“Hssss, sssss, hsss, ssss,” one of the dementors at the table replied, not bothering to look up from his… her… its cards. The medallion translated the hissing to, “What do you want? You’re interrupting our game.”

“Listen up! Since you dementors failed to get that Potter brat earlier this summer, you have to get him now in order to release the people he has taken hostage. Chop, chop; get to it.”

“What are you talking about?” the medallion translated. “Any of you blokes know what that toad is talking about?”

“I’m talking about you getting rid of that Potter brat that you failed to do in the summer!” the medallion hissed to the four card players.

“Hey, Wringo, I know what the blob is yapping about. That job over the summer. You know, the one where Paul and John got scorched when we didn’t get the proper updates.”

“Right you are, George. I recall that. Okay, toad, what do you want this time?”

“Are you deaf?! I want that Potter brat kissed!”

“Right. And… what’s in this plan of yours for us?”

Dolores was stunned as the medallion translated their hissing. “You work for the Ministry! You will do as you are told,” she instructed.

Dementor John pointed a finger at Dolores. “Let’s get one thing straight, toad, we work for the Ministry, but we also get paid. We get paid in emotions. Look around you! You hear any sounds? That’s because all the inmates are gone! Now I ask you again, what’s in it for us?”

Dolores had an inspired thought and said, “You can suck the soul out of the little brat.”

“That’s a snack. We want more,” hissed Dementor Paul.

“You can have all the souls from muggles you want then.”

“No. We get indigestion from muggle souls,” Dementor George pointed out.

Frustrated, Dolores snapped, “Then what do you want?”

“We want 1000 galleons for the hit,” Dementor Wingo stated.

“What? Why?”

Wringo replied, “We’ll use it to place ads in papers to gather crowds to a fun event and then suck out all the positive emotions. Muggle souls we don’t like, but positive emotions are still positive emotions. And we’re hungry.”

Dolores grumbled. “Very well.” She reached into her purse, pulled some things out, scribbled something on paper and handed it to the dementor. “Here you go.”

“What’s this?” George hissed unsure what the paper was.

“It’s a check,” Dolores pointed out.

“What’s a check?” Paul wondered aloud.

“Where’s the gold?” John accused.

“It’s just as good as gold I’ll have you know,” Dolores said confidently. She handed them another piece of paper. “Now this is where the brat is. He has a kiss on sight on him.”

“Very well. We’ll be in touch after the hit,” Wringo agreed.

**-o0o-**

“Wow,” Wringo said as the four glided through a neighborhood. “This enclave stinks. It’s so… so…” he struggled for the word.

“Drab?” George suggested.

“Tedious?” suggested Paul.

“Boring?” John thought.

“I was actually thinking of predictable, but those work as well,” Wringo commented.

“Here’s the place,” George pointed a skeletal finger at a generic house in a generic neighborhood. The dementor squad looked at the drab dwelling.

“You’d think if the rumors the human prison guards said were true that this Potter kid swiped a bunch of people that this place wouldn’t be big enough to store them,” John said.

“True. But let’s get this over with. How to go about it you guys reckon?”

“Direct approach,” Paul stated. “Let’s get this over with.”

The four dementors glided up the path to the house and stopped at the front door. They each cracked their knuckles, limbered up at the expected confrontation, and then Wringo rang the doorbell.

They heard footsteps thundering towards the door. Moments later it opened and a red-faced, moustached fat muggle opened the door.

“Who is coming around this late… alright. Who’s been ringing my doorbell?” He looked around and didn’t see the four dementors within an arm’s reach. “Look,” the muggle said a little loudly. “Dudley isn’t here, right? He’s at boarding school. He’ll be back at Christmas. And just because it’s cold now doesn’t mean it’s Christmas.” The muggle then slammed the door shut. “Bloody kids,” the dementors heard him mutter.

Wringo looked at the other three. “That muggle smelled a little off.”

“Yeah,” George agreed. “And I don’t sense a magical anywhere around here. There’s nothing magical here at all.”

“Well, at least we got paid up front,” John grinned. “C’mon, let’s go cash this thing.”

They had glided a few meters away when Paul suddenly said, “Wait a tic. I have something I want to do.”

Paul picked up steam, glided to a few neighboring homes and scooped up as much poop as he could locate, which considering the Jones’ at #7 had acquired two new labs that summer was not a small amount, nor was it particularly hard to find. Paul returned minutes later and put all the poop on Vernon’s doorstep. Smiling as only a dementor could, Paul pulled a lighter from his pocket and effortlessly set the poop on fire.

George, knowing what was coming, rang the doorbell as soon as the poop was good and burning, and the two rushed back to join the other two behind the nearby shrubs.

As expected, Vernon rushed to the door, still red-faced from any physical activity, saw the fire, and began to stomp it out. As expected, he got stinky shit all over his shoes, and clothes. And as an unexpected bonus, his stomping alerted his wife who came out and began stomping on it as well, also getting it on her shoes and clothes as well as letting the smell permeate their house.

Minutes later the fire was out and the two Dursely parents smelled like burnt poop.

The four dementors left the area, laughing. “That joke never gets old,” Paul chortled.

“Too true, Paul,” John replied, and pulled some toilet paper out of a pocket that he had swiped from the outhouse the human guards used at Azkaban. “You all game?”

It was an hour later when the dementors finally finished and headed for the bank.

And it was a stunned Piers Polkiss who got a chewing out in the morning when neighbors on all sides of his house woke to find they had been TP’d and had concluded that the house not TP’d, aka the Polkiss residence, must have been responsible for the transgression. Parents held a quick meeting and decided that if that Polkiss brat had been responsible for the TP going up, then he could bloody well take it down. Or else.

**-o0o-**

Hours before Piers was to be subjected to a few choice expletives by quite a few screaming sets of parents for something he didn’t do (this time), the four dementors found themselves in front of a goblin teller window at Gringotts.

“What do you mean you can’t cash that check?” John hissed, aghast.

“Insufficient funds,” replied the goblin teller.

“Are funds there to cover any of it?” Wingo hissed.

“No. This check cannot even cover 1 knut, let alone 1 galleon.”

The dementor squad looked at one another and silently nodded to each other.

Wringo turned back to the teller and hissed, “Say, can you do a bloke a favor and tell us where we might find that Ministry stooge, Dolores Umbridge?”

The Goblin smiled and stated, “Now that we can provide for free since she has signed a false financial document.”

**-o0o-**

Dolores Umbridge heard knocking at her front door. Strange, she felt. It was the middle of the night. No one that she knew was up in the middle of the night. The wards hadn’t stopped them so they must be someone she knows. She rolled out of bed.

She quickly (so to speak for her) went to the front door and found her dementor hit squad waiting for her. Realization struck. She found her Ministry medallion, opened the door and ushered them in.

“It’s done then? The boy has been taken care of?” she said as the medallion hissed the translation.

“No,” George replied. “He wasn’t there.”

“What?! But that was his last address. He has to be there! He’s just a child, so he couldn’t have gone far,” she snarled.

“That may be so,” Paul agreed. “But you have a bigger issue.”

“Than finding the Potter boy?”

“Yes,” Wringo hissed. “Your check bounced.”

“What do you mean, it bounced? What does that mean?”

“It means you gave us a rubber check,” John stated.

“I don’t get it,” Dolores frowned, not getting it.

“No funds to cover what you wrote is what it means. Now we get our payment another way,” John hissed menacingly.

“You don’t mean to suck my soul out do you?” Dolores put her hands out to stop the soul sucking monsters.

“Your soul?” Paul started. “Nah. It’s too withered. We got a better idea for you.”

The four dementors grabbed her arms, dragged her out of the house and into the sky.

**-o0o-**

The crack of dawn came to Azkaban like a waste of time. It was a waste, thought Warden Hendrickson. None of the inmates who had previously been there were around to see it. Not that they’d been able to see it before, but it was the thought that counted, he knew. No, those inmates were gone and the place was mostly deserted. And to make matters worse, he hadn’t been paid. In fact, he was the last one there now. His last helper, Tobias Aracemediasiski left late last night with the comment that he would only be back once he got paid.

Hendrickson was not sure what he was going to do with the dementors now that it was just him watching this prison. Foul monsters, he thought. Now they were slipping out and coming back with victims, like a quad group did an hour ago. Brrrr. Hope that witch or wizard deserved their fate. He went back into his office, closed the door to the cold and threw another log into the stove to heat the room some more.

The crack of noon was no less observed on Azkaban than dawn or dusk were these days. Only, something new was in the works on the remote island. In the deepest pit of Azkaban a robed figure bent near a pool of what looked like waste and scooped up about five liters of both straight liquid and near-liquid crap.

The dementor rose off the floor and flew up, out of the pit, and further upwards to one of the normally unused prison offices. It had been taken over by the dementor hit squad. A fifth dementor was secured to the interior wall. Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary was now looking out the window.

“How do you feel?” Wingo inquired to the unbound Umbridge.

“It’s a little weird in this body,” Dolores said, not bothering to use the medallion to hiss her reply. “It’s hot. I need to exercise and lose all this fat. You guys good with the toad?”

George replied, “Yeah, we’re good. She’s not getting out of your shell until you want it back.”

Strange-sounding Umbridge nodded. “Okay. I’m heading out. And if I see any other self-styled important suckers out there, I’ll let you know. It’s always good to have a vacation from this dump now and then.”

“Sounds good, Rhonda. Have fun. Any idea of what you are going to start with first?” John said as he unhooked the straps of the dementor attached to the interior wall.

Umbridge-Rhonda smirked. “Oh yeah. I sure do. I think I’ll explore her thoughts on this Cornelius. He’s supposed to be a bigwig at the Ministry.”

“You can’t let that thing inhabit my body!” hissed the fifth dementor which amazingly said what Dolores Umbridge would say. “What will people think of me? And what do you have to eat around here… I’m starving!”

John looked at the fifth dementor. “Not to worry, Dolores. You have a debt to pay off and it will keep you fed. We are dementors. We feed off happy emotions, and from souls. That is what you Ministry people tell everyone. Don’t deny it, we read your pamphlets. But we also serve another purpose. The one we were initially created for millennia ago.”

“What purpose is that?” she said, rubbing her free wrists while inhabiting that dementor body.

“We handle waste duty,” grinned Paul. “That is how you are going to keep yourself fit, ministry toad. You need to go around to all the buckets in the cells and help yourself to the human waste in there. And once you run out of that, we have plenty more of it in the pit.”

“What?!” shouted newly dementorized-Dolores.

“She needs small words, Paul,” said Wringo.

“Right. You need to go and eat some shit to stay alive. Magical shit is the best. Otherwise, it’s lights out for you.”

“What?! Nooooo!” again shouted newly dementor-Dolores.

“Oi! Shut it already,” instructed Wingo. “Rhonda, you better get going.”

“Later, boys,” Umbridge-Rhonda hissed, leaving.

Dementor-Dolores was made of strong stuff, she told herself. She would get off this island and get her body back. She would make these dementors pay for what they did to her. Oh yes, she would. She would show them what a proper near-pureblood witch could do! Oh, yes!

She lasted all of four minutes before her hunger drove her to wail, “I’m soooo hungry. I need to eat!”

“Pail’s over there,” Wringo indicated the waiting bucket with his thumb while his other hand held a lousy hand. “Eat anytime you want. Gimme two cards.”

Dementor-Dolores gravitated to the pail and looked down in the pail of poop. It looked hideous. But it smelled soooo good. She couldn’t help herself. She knelt and began sucking shit out of the pail.

George nodded at her progress to the rest of the lads. “Think she’ll ever stop? Look at her go.”

“Hope not,” John responded. “I don’t want to do that duty any longer. As long as she keeps eating shit, the demononet will siphon her energy off and transfer to us. Shaft us with a check will she?”

Paul threw his cards down in disgust. “Anyone fancy a game of checkers?”

“Me,” George replied. “These cards suck.”

“I’ll play winner,” Wringo chimed… er… hissed in. “You know, I wish we could visit some Veela and get a game of Yahtzee-Parcheesi-Monopoly-Risk-Battleship-Exploding Snap going. Those birds really know how to play games. I love those rules they keep instituting.”

“Why don’t we go visit some?” said John. “Toad there is busy and going to stay that way for some time. Leave her to it I say. Just get one of those magical hoses to connect her bucket with the pit.”

“We can’t leave our duty here, John,” George stated.

“Why not?” John wondered.

“It’s just not done. There are wards in place to prevent us.”

“C’mon,” John pleaded. “It’s just a little trip over to Belgium.”

“No.” Paul and Wringo kept quiet.

“It’ll be like taking a trip to Wisconsin.”

“No.”

“I’ll drive,” John pointed out.

“Okay then,” George agreed.

**-o0o-**

**September 3rd**

Soon enough, Umbridge-Rhonda (currently wearing a hideously pink Dolores Umbridge suit) was slowly making her way to London. True, she had the witch’s magic she could tap, along with the witch’s memories, but had never really gotten apparition down. So she was walking along the freeway, thumb out in the hopes a trucker would stop and offer her a ride.

**-o0o-**

**September 5th**

Umbridge-Rhonda was at the Ministry and took the escape tunnel to see Dolores’ love interest: Cornelius Fudge. She was excited to see this aspect of a witch’s life. She hadn’t done this in, well, ever! She did take the time to transfigure a few of the clothes she had on. Nothing was too good for Fudge, she thought.

**-o0o-**

“My eyes! My eyes! Oh sweet Merlin! I can’t un-see that! Oh the humanity!”

Oh that funny Fudge, Umbridge-Rhonda thought. Based off the witch’s memories, she recognized that this was his way of flirting. She pressed on.

And on.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
I was sorely tempted to introduce Mr. Rock into this chapter. But I don’t think she would have wanted to meet Umbridge. Ha. That was a shameless plug for my last story. Of course, these dementor characters are from that same story, so I still get the shameless plug in no matter what.

A general comment for my stories in case anyone is interested or has noticed: I have been exploring different writing styles with the way I write scenes and characters. I want to do something different than other authors. Any suggestions around this are always welcome, both good and bad. I like to learn from my mistakes.

The reason I doing this is that last year I spent the entire year creating writing ideas, jotting them down here and there. I have a few Harry Potter ideas I will likely create in the future. I have begun to seriously plot out my Harry Potter / Star Wars storyline (which will be, as you would likely guess based on what I have written so far, a comedy). I already have many of the ideas down which I think will tickle more than a few funny bones.

I have also begun work on two of my own personal projects – and they are not fanfics. Both are vastly different, but I am enjoying the creative process as I begin this. I actually wrote my first book 25 years ago. I thought it was fantastic. I sent it to an agent in NY. He took it to a publisher. I got a letter back a few days later. They hated it. They thought it was awful, and predictable. What did they know, I thought. I shelved the book, went to work, got married, had kids and generally avoided writing for a variety of reasons. I picked that book up again a few years ago. I read it. The agent and publisher had been right. It was terrible.

Fortunately I have gotten better with storytelling since then. I hope. I have also found that I enjoy writing comedy more than anything else. One of my new book ideas is a SF/Comedy that I am exploring how to create monsters in the most fantastic, and yet ironic way possible. The other requires a lot of research of past societies, and will not be as funny. But the idea just intrigues me. All right, that’s enough of me blabbing on. There are approximately 10 more chapters left in this story. A couple of the later ones are done. I am hoping to have this entire story done by the end of March. If anyone has specific characters they want included, chime up soon before this story is done.

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	9. Shafting the Malfoys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All 3 Malfoys are shafted in different ways

**Author’s Note:**  
Someone once said that everyone has a story. What that really means in the Harry Potter world is that, events have consequences and those consequences are faced by others. Sometimes it is faced by the person who delivers your daily paper. Sometimes by your worst enemy. And sometimes, it is faced by a schmuck and his family who have really annoyed someone else that a bigger, better, 7-volume book series and corresponding movies could be written about. Maybe.

It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter series. This is purely for fun. This is still a crackfic.

**-o0o-**

September 4th was a really bad day for Draco Malfoy. Well, if he were fair (which he wasn’t), he would have recognized that since the evening of September 1st, every day was equally bad, just in a different capacity. But September 4th really, really sucked. So it was really bad as far as he was concerned.

It was all Potter’s fault, he knew. And for once, the young former-Slytherin was right. It was all Potter’s fault he was in that predicament. Potter had, after all, defeated Draco’s idolized Dark Lord three times in recognized magical combat. He was the victor and to him went the spoils. Unfortunately, his parents had been stupid enough to pledge themselves to a self-depicted Dark Lord who constantly said he wanted to protect and preserve pureblood rights and agendas. Was it young Harry’s fault that these same morons didn’t bother to do any sort of background vetting on this supposed Dark Lord? The same kind of background vetting that would have proven to anyone the same Dark Lord was not a pureblood?

Be that as it may, young Draco Malfoy was 100 percent absolutely correct that his current predicament was Potter’s fault. September 1st found that Draco was taken prisoner by those Goblins – those beasts! September 2nd had found Draco shackled, forced to wear a horrible shirt, and then had his magic bound. September 3rd had found Draco waking up in the makeshift infirmary wherever they were to a new sensation of not having access to his magic. It was horrible. Ghastly. Awful. He had been weak all day as had the others around him. Finally, that night he was able to get up and move around the room. He quietly made his way to his friends in the same situation as him. He had to make plans. He was not going to be a slave, he knew, but he would be free. And soon enough he would find a way to remove the bindings, reclaim his fortu… er… his parents’ fortune, and then Potter would pay. They talked for an hour, plotting out when and where they would meet. It would only take him a day or two at best to make his escape wherever Potter was putting him. Then he would find a local magical and make contact with the rest.

Then came September 4th. The day when the Goblins and the human overseers sent them on their way. Draco was the last to leave. He knew what it was for: they were trying to break him by making him think he was all alone when the others vanished via portkey one at a time. He wouldn’t be broken, though. He was tougher than that. Little did young Draco know that he was being held back as the last one to leave as the individual he was to meet at the location he was going to wasn’t quite ready for him.

It was close to 10:30am local when he and his handler portkeyed to what later Draco would learn was Balnamore, Ireland, population 900. A small town with one orphanage that was in the process of being phased out. In fact, Draco would have been amazed to know that he was to be its last resident once he left. Well, he would have been amazed had he bothered to care, or ask – which he didn’t. The morning was already bright when they arrived. The small village with its equally small orphanage held only a few individuals these days. Foster care was the big rage and Mrs. Brigstown was all for it. Children needed a more hands-on approach than what she was able to give to her charges over the last few decades if there were any more than three children at her house. But now that there were less children around, she could give them a more positive, hands-on mothering.

“Ah, hullo, Mrs. Brigtown,” greeted David McCready as he and Draco walked up the path to her house.

“Mr. McCready,” Mrs. Brigtown returned with her thick Irish accent. “I take it this is Drake Malfoy?”

“Aye, Mrs. Brigtown,” David agreed. “And here are all the papers you will need for his care and enrollment in the local school.”

“Very well,” she nodded. “Young man, your room is on the second floor, second door on the left. His clothes and effects?” This question was directed to David McCready.

“He only has what is on him, I’m afraid. However, additional compensation has been added to your account for a clothing allowance. If you need anything else, please contact my office and I will get you funds.”

“Very well,” she said simply. Turning to her new charge, she instructed, “Up by 5 am, you are third to wash, behind Kenny and Dennis. Finish by 5:30, then downstairs and help make breakfast. You must be ready to leave by 6 am for school. The bus picks up promptly at 6:12 am.”

“Bus?” Draco swirled the strange muggle word around in his mouth.

“Yes,” she snapped. “Our town is not big enough to support more than a small primary school for the younger children. You will go to the next town over. School starts promptly at 7:15 am. You will attend classes and be on the return bus by 2:45 pm. You will be dropped off here by 3:15 pm. You will come straight home. Am I understood?”

“What?” Draco returned, not sure if he was hearing everything. Or, more to the point, understanding everything.

Mrs. Brigtown turned to the other adult present. “Was he dropped on his head?”

“No,” was the reply. “Worse. He no longer has his magic.”

“Ahh,” succinctly summed up Mrs. Brigtown’s thoughts. “Accidentally?”

“No.”

“Ahh. Well, then, that’s a little different now. Change of plans, Mr. Malfoy. You will be rising at 4:30am every day to attend 30 minutes of mandatory muggle training with me. You will not be breaking the statute while in my care, is that understood?”

“Mandatory muggle training,” he started. “Wait! You’re a muggle so how can you order me…”

Whack!

Draco nearly stumbled to the dirt and grass they were all standing on. He held the back of his head. “What the hell…”

Whack!

“Quit doing that!” Draco snarled, again near the ground. He looked up at Mrs. Brigtown’s piercing gaze. Her arched left eyebrow gave clear indication that she was not about to put up with his tomfoolery. “I will not have any lip from you, Mr. Malfoy. You will not swear around me or anyone living here. I cannot keep that foul mouth of yours clean while you are at school, but you will remain respectful here. Am I understood?”

Draco got up and put a few feet between him and this crazy lady he had to live with. “When I get my magic back,” he started.

Whack!

“Owwwww,” he muttered as his eyes regained focused while his hands held his aching head. “How is a muggle doing that?” he said to no one particular.

“Not a muggle, Mr. Malfoy,” replied Draco’s caseworker. “A squib.”

“Worse,” snarled Draco.

Whack!

“Stop doing that already!” he snarled but clearly avoided swearing once he got back on his feet.

“My mother, God rest her soul, had to keep my father in line every time he decided to spout off with foul language around her two daughters. She used a cast iron skillet a time or two. I do not use a skillet, Mr. Malfoy, but will not brook any foul language around me and mine. Am I understood?”

“…yes,” he finally mumbled.

“Good. As I said, you will rise at 4:30 am daily for 30-minute lessons with me. I will teach you first how to integrate as a muggle.” She looked at him crossly, expecting another outburst. There wasn’t one. Surprisingly, even Draco Malfoy could take a hint when it was whacked into his head a few times. “Once those lessons are over, we will then begin religious lessons.”

Draco again held his tongue, but his eyes and demeanor were screaming, ‘Religion? What the…’

“Aye, Mr. Malfoy. Religion. I know how most magicals are raised in the UK. Not an ounce of religion to be seen.”

“With good reason,” Draco started.

Whack!

“What was that?” Mrs. Brigtown steeled her voice.

“Nothing, ma’am,” Draco said woozily on his feet.

“Good. You will be attending mass beginning this Sunday. We may not have a school for you in this town, but there is a church. We will put the fear of God into you yet, young man.”

**-o0o-**

As Draco was being introduced to living life as a newly-mugglized-wizard, Narcissa too was finding it strange, new, and not a little bit daunting to learn what the rest of her new life would consist of.

September 4th was a horrible day for Narcissa Malfoy as it was for her son. It had all started innocently enough this summer she reflected as she rose from the tiny double-bed in the hovel she was forced to live in. Her idiot of a husband had explained it to her. Mr. Dark had returned to life, was currently camping out in their basement, and the British Hero, aka: Harry Potter, needed to go.

Of course, then some ministry stooge had decided to go rogue on everyone and send some dementors after the boy, who, like all heroes do, managed to defeat them in the nick of time. Bloody heroes. She made her way to the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror, refused to cry again, and began fumbling with the nobs on the shower, recalling their functions from when she had been a girl at Hogwarts and had to do this manually there. “Twisty?” she whispered. Nothing. No house elf was coming to help her.

As the water got warmer, she remembered the next step in Lucius’ cunning plan. Other than the cunning, that is. He told her that Potter had repelled dementors somehow but that they had a golden opportunity to get him kicked out of Hogwarts and snap his wand. That was all they needed to do. Lucius said his plan couldn’t fail. He and his cronies railroaded the young hero and it was yet another evil gamble that didn’t pay off. Bloody useless husband.

She took a shower, startling a bit when knocking was on the door and a voice unkindly yelled, “Quit using all the hot water, ya bloody cow!” Ah, Narcissa recalled. Gwen.

“I’m almost done!” Narcissa yelled back, not bothering to tell her she was almost done lathering up, but had yet to start on her hair.

Of course they all thought they had won and would soon take command of all magicals in Britain, and then the world. But then September 1st happened, they were collected like common riff-raff, interrogated for what seemed like hours (which in reality had only been three minutes not that she noticed), and then assigned… jobs! And to make this indignity of having to… work… even worse, she was sent solo to a new assignment, given orders, and made to stay in this, this… hovel!

“Get the hell out of there, yeah?!” yelled another voice. Ah, Narcissa knew. Mistress Jasmin.

“Rinsing now!” Narcissa yelled back. The Mistress could bloody well wait as far as she was concerned.

Water off, she toweled dry quickly, leaving her hair wet as she left the bathroom. Two other women were waiting outside the door. “Took you long enough,” groused the taller of the two, who also outweighed Narcissa by a whole second Narcissa.

“These showers are so… primitive,” Narcissa answered as she headed for her room in the split-level.

“Look, Narcy,” the taller, and clearly bigger woman who had short cropped green hair and a tattoo of a biker on her bicep with the word “Dad” under it, “I don’t give a rat’s fart where you think you live. You can live in your own mental la-la land as much as you bloody well want. But let’s get one thing straight: this is my house and you are simply a tenant. Your caseworker asked me to put you up here seeing as how you and your ex were caught embezzling, and he went to jail. Now you, Ms. Hoighty-Toity, may have escaped jail time, but you ain’t sitting around here any longer moaning for the rich things in life to be handed to you on a silver plate.”

“You tell her, Gwen,” said the other girl who was closer in size to Narcissa but with a wild hair style. “Bitch thinks all the hot water is hers to use as she pleases.”

“Jaz, please. Thank you. So, Narcy, here’s the deal. Ed called last night after you sacked out. You start work this morning at Ye Olde Hair Dresser Shoppe. It’s two blocks from here so you can walk there.”

“Walk?” Narcissa nearly squeaked.

“Jesus!” Gwen Stephani (no relation) snapped, clearly at wits end with this useless woman who expected to be waited on hand and foot, and from the looks of her bearing had probably had been living with just that as her husband looted some company. “Yes, you bloody bint! Walk. No one is going to drive you two ruddy blocks.”

Narcissa arched her eyebrow. “Very well,” she intoned in a resigned voice. “I guess I can instruct the hair staff.”

“Instruct?” scoffed Jasmin. “Sweetie, your so-called ‘instructions’ to me since you showed up yesterday have made me want to slap the shit out of you. And if Gwen hadn’t taken away my knife…”

“Enough, Jaz. Narcy, let me set you right on a few things. You ain’t rich and we ain’t your friends. You being at this half-way house tells me everything I need to know.”

“And what’s that?” demanded an irate Narcy… er… Narcissa.

“One: You didn’t do any time but here you are. I reckon you had nowhere else to go. Everything you had was repo’d. You are flat broke. Two: you got no family or friends to help you out. They probably cut you loose as soon as word came around your husband got himself arrested. Three: you expect to be pampered, which sure as hell ain’t going to happen here. Four: you don’t have any work skills otherwise you wouldn’t have squawked about walking two blocks to a job. And five: you expect to get by ordering others around. Well, sweet-cheeks that last one ain’t going to work at all. In fact, if I get so much as one more order or demand from you today, I’m going to give Jaz her knife back and let her get creative. Got it?!”

“Yes, Gwen,” answered a subdued Narcissa.

“Now you have a few hours before you start work. Get dressed, get that hair dried, come downstairs for breakfast and I’ll walk you to that shoppe.”

“I don’t have experience cutting hair,” Narcissa said quietly.

“No shit,” Jaz replied sarcastically. “Tell us something we don’t know. Mandy, the owner of the shop, already knows this as well.”

“So if I’m not instructing at the shop, and not cutting hair, then what will I be doing?”

“Cleaning. Sometimes sweeping up hair on the floor. Other times, cleaning the bathrooms. Her clientele tend to have explosive diarrhea more often than not.”

Narcy walked back into her room to get ready for the first full day of the rest of her life. She sat on her bed. “I hate my life,” she said to herself. She did, too. She hated it.

She blamed her bastard of a father for introducing that stupid marriage contract with the Malfoy family.

**-o0o-**

And as both Draco and Narcissa acclimated their lives to what was to become the new normal in the muggle world, dear old dad, one Lucius Malfoy did not have to endure such an indignity. Oh no, not at all.

Instead, he was staying smack dab in the middle of the magical world. Or at least what most of the English thought of when they conceptualized “the magical world” which, unsurprisingly, looked like Great Britain in their heads.

But back to Lucius. He too was commiserating his lousy luck since September 1st. He had lost his fortune, his wife, his house, his cane, his bed, his clothes, but most importantly, his fortune. Everything else could be replaced had he his fortune. Everything. Since lunchtime on September 1st, everything had gone progressively worse for him, and he supposed the rest of his family.

September 2nd had their unjust trials, but he might have been confused if that had still been September 1st – after all, it had been late by the time all of his friends had been interrogated by those muggle-lovers. But the convictions came and Potter had no intention of overturning them. He wouldn’t have done it either had he been the boy. Of course, if he had been a Hero, he would have been out of this work program already and on his way to slay the enemy. Stupid muggles and half-bloods, not even realizing what they needed to do next in a classical magic-hero story. Bah, they would never understand.

September 2nd had been the start of portkeys with loved ones leaving. Or as close to loved ones as he could get. One after another. They saved those that were to get the worst fates for last. These cruel jailors, rotten Goblins that they were, just loved to taunt him and his other tattooed peers telling him what this or that person was going to do with the rest of their lives. Old man River, not the head of his family, but the younger brother by 2 minutes, was heading for Brighton where he had a job picking up gum dropped by the tourists. He was also going to clean the beaches and make sure the local Wimpys chain was adhering to local codes. Little did Lucius or even the Goblins know that Old Man River would do his job too well, and the gum found stuck to park benches and rocks would soon make their way to his personal quarters where he was convinced that there was magic in the gum and he was certain he could control it. Alas, he never did learn to control it and one day he went to blow a multi-piece bubble, but it popped and gummed up the entire front of his face, causing him to slowly suffocate. He blacked out within 5 minutes. And died 15 minutes later. He was not found for three weeks in his converted port-a-potty/bedroom, and the stench was so bad that the port-a-potty had to go. Since Old River was dead, his handler and the Goblins decided to waste not, want not, and buried him with full honors in his port-a-potty on his former family estate. Complete with a 21-pee salute by some grinning house elves.

Unfortunately, the chemicals still in the port-a-potty combined with Old River himself soon leeched into the ground and killed the grass above the plastic coffin. The new estate owners did the only thing they could think of: they paved over the area with loose rock and made it into a dog park which was promptly used many times a day for the next few decades. Old Man River’s former pet pooch, Rusty, had never forgotten his old master. In fact, he smelled his old master in that dog park. He left presents for that old master every day. Sometimes two and three times a day. It just depended on what his new owners snuck him when bigger humans weren’t looking at the dinner table.

September 3rd at some point found Lucius portkeyed to some unknown destination. It was late. It was dark. He was tired, and he was escorted to a room where he was told would be his to do with as he wanted for as long as he was there. A side door held an attached shower. He used the shower, found dinner waiting for him when he finished, and sat to relax for the first time in days. This didn’t appear to be so bad he had thought.

He went to sleep that night and was promptly woken at 4:30 am on September 4th. It was, he later realized, the first day of the rest of his miserable life.

A Goblin came in and instructed him on the fine arts of mucking the Gringotts stalls. It was a short demonstration that was concise as it was effective.

“Crapdigger,” the Goblin had said when it burst into Lucius’ room.

“I say, you can’t come in here, you cheeky…”

“Your name is now Crapdigger,” the Goblin stated. He shoved a shovel in Lucius’ hands. “This is your tool of trade. You will be shoveling Hippogriff dung for the foreseeable future. The stall was last mucked 4,158 days ago. This is your current assignment.”

“I’m to shuffle Hippogriff dung?”

“No. You are to shovel Hippogriff dung, shithead. I would tell you the amount of dung you have to shovel but it would only make you cry.”

“Well, that’s good I guess,” Lucius started.

“There is 8.9 metric tons of shit to shovel, Crapdigger,” the Goblin grinned.

“What?!”

“Not to worry, Crapdigger. You will get a 15-minute break every hour to soothe your hands which will be aching and burning within the first few minutes.”

“Well, I can’t argue that I get a 15-minute break,” he started.

“The break will allow you to soak your hands in a Crowberry poultice. I am to understand its smell is rather pungent to you humans. This is, after all, why you have to be kept separated from the rest of the prisoners. You do know what happens with sufficient exposure to Crowsberry smell, don’t you? I wouldn’t want to worry you if don’t know.”

“Crowberry exposure was never covered in Potions,” he started.

“Well, then let me tell you,” again grinned the Goblin as if it were KillingHumanDay (which was similar to Christmas, only there was nothing peaceful about it, and Goblins didn’t get to practice the old festivities any more – however, there was still mistletoe). “Hippogriff shit is acidic and will burn your skin. You have a shovel that you will use extensively, but Hippogriff dung is sticky. That means you will need to use your hands to clean said shovel every time there is too much sticky shit covered on it. Otherwise, you will never meet your quota. Best estimate I have for you is about every 3rd shovelful you will need to remove the sticky stuff.

“Now, the Crowberries soothe burned skin and leaches the acid from your body. The offset is a horrible stench to you humans. Oh, and the longer the cycle continues, the worse the stench becomes, almost as if it triggers homicidal hallucinogenic rages in other humans who are not soothing themselves with a Crowberry poultice. With me so far? Good!

“Now there are some good effects with the Crowberries as well. You see while you have your 15-minute breaks resting in Crowberry juice, you will need to have others wait on you as you will not be able to use your hands to eat or drink lest you contaminate anything you touch. Your fellow humans will be cycled in and out to wait on you.

“Speaking of your fellow humans, they will begin to have hallucinations around you the longer they are exposed to Crowberries. These can be simple or complex, peaceful or violent, depending on the person. It’s been my experience that the more peaceful personalities keep the hallucinations peaceful as well. And the more violent ones get violent hallucinations. Again, you will not have to worry about it since you are covered in the juice which as it turns out inhibits your olfactory senses from taking in any Crowberry smells.

“However, your colleagues will not have this same protection and they will be the ones delivering your meals and cleaning your room and shower. The cleaning will have to be done daily as exposure to both Hippogriff dung and Crowberries will cause your clothing and bedding to become slightly toxic. But again, you don’t to worry about it affecting yourself. Just the things around you. But do not worry about you clothing, linen and beddings; we will be recouping those costs with the magical sludge we will be making out of all those things which is used as the base ingredient for Amway.”

“How is this good news for me?”

“Oh it’s not good for you. It’s good for Gringotts as we make a profit on your toxicity.”

“How long will I have to do this job?” Lucius pleaded.

“Very good question, Crapdigger. You simply have to do it until it is all good and moved. It just depends on you is all.”

“Where does it need to be moved?”

“Oh, just to the stall next to where it is all being kept now.”

“What?!”

“I can see the question you have in your mind. Yes, the dung is valuable and needs to be aired. No sense moving it too far,” the Goblin nodded in approval to the unasked question.

“So then if I move a ton of crap a day…” Lucius started.

“Haw! You kill me, Crapdigger. A ton. You will be lucky to move a hundred kilograms a day. One of the side effects of Hippogriff dung and Crowberries is the muscle-illusion that shovel amounts get exponentially heavier.” Seeing the blank look of the former-wizard, the Goblin knew it had to use small words. “This means each time you take a Crowberry break, once you return to shoveling the dung, the same amount you lifted before will now seem to be twice as heavy. For example, if you were to scoop up one kilogram of hippogriff dung in your first hour, then that same shovelful will feel like two kilograms the next hour. Then 4 kilograms, 8, 16, 32, 64 until it feels like you are lifting 128 kilograms at the end of the day for that same shovelful amount.”

“What?!”

“I know! I thought the same thing when the first human encountered this little side effect centuries ago. Ah well, it’s all good. Builds character I always say. And it’s not like you won’t have a quota to fill. No quota means no Crowberry poultice. So let’s plan on a hundred kilograms a day.”

“Where’s my caseworker?” Lucius looked for a way to screw the current system.

The Goblin replied, “Oh, she will get regular reports. She can even watch via that mirror up in the corner to see how you are doing and how you are being treated. But she cannot come to see you until you are done for the day.”

“Why?”

“I thought you might have figured that part out by now, Crapdigger. Because you are contagious until you are fumigated in your shower. Best try not to scratch an itch on your nose or wipe any sweat away from your face. You wouldn’t want to get that in your eye. If you were to, say, touch your nose with your hands after touching Hippogriff dung, you will begin to notice the burning there too. Then during your next 15-minute break, you would be soothing your hands and your nose. This is also one of the reasons why you will have team members waiting on you – to feed you, to give you water, and also to see to any bathroom needs you may have. Because you definitely do not want to wipe yourself down there with sticky fingers if you know what I mean. Otherwise it is Crowberry drip for you down there from now on. Well, why don’t you get busy and I’ll check on your progress in 45 minutes when I bring the poultice. I’ll show you have to use it so it lasts the entire day. I will also bring the rest of your team so you can meet them. Toodles!”

**-o0o-**

The next day, magic-bound Draco ‘Drake’ Malfoy was up at 4:30 to attend his mandatory muggle class with Mrs. Brigtown. He accepted what she instructed with a closed mouth. Draco had plans. All he needed to do was find the local magical outlet and get them to unbind him, get him a wand, get him money so he can gather forces, and then get him enough funds to live correctly until he put Potter in his place.

Not soon enough for Mrs. Brigtown, he was off to the local secondary school. He had only been in the halls before the first class when a couple fellows judged him correctly.

“He’s an awful feckin’ gobshite,” Sean Pickers said to his friend, Kyle Shannahan (no relation).

“Aye. He is.”

Kyle spent the rest of the day near the new student, not really by his choice. He checked his watch multiple times in every class. That night he spoke with his da regarding the new kid in school.

“Da?”

“Whut?”

“One of the purebloods that the Goblins grabbed is in my school. It’s Draco Malfoy. Cross-checked against the picture of him in the paper.”

“Truth?”

“Yeh.”

“How magical is he now?”

“Dunno. My watch didn’t go off at all today. And I was sittin’ next to him a few times. I’m thinking he’s bound.”

“Right. No sense trying to help that ponce then. Let’s get word out to the families and familiars that we have a bound pureblood hanging around.”

“Can I use the ghost?”

“Good idea, Kyle. Go for it.”

Soon enough a ghostly signal was sent to all the magicals and near-magicals in surrounding towns. A ghostly voice was soon saying to its recipients, “One of the purebloods caught in the British Pureblood Purge is in the area. Beware of Draco Malfoy, enemy of Harry Potter. And even if he wasn’t Potter’s enemy, he’s a right ass so avoid this wanker.”

Kyle’s da thought the message funny and effective. His mother, however, did not approve of his foul language. Kyle blamed it on having to be around that Draco git.

**-o0o-**

Narcy had a lot to learn in her first ever job. But she was up for the challenge. She would be the best damn slave or whatever they wanted to call it she could be. And she did work. As much as she could. She worked so much that during her first day she caught a cold. The next day it was worse. And that night, having heard her wheeze enough, Gwen introduced Narcy to something cool: NyQuil.

Narcy took a shot. Then a couple of shots. “Whoa,” she slurred. “This stuff is solid.”

**-o0o-**

Antonin Dolohov, Lucius found out, was down in this underground cavern somewhere as well. In fact, he could hear him now and then. Screaming. And crying. His assignment was dragon bait. The Goblin (Lucius never bothered to learn his name since one Goblin was the same as the next) had even pointed it out when the screams could be heard making their way to where Lucius and his team were. Apparently dragons were used for both guard duty on the lower vaults as well as muscle when the vault doors needed to be opened, much like an elephant (whatever that was, Lucius mentally snarled). Dolohov spent 8 hours a day inside a cage that was suspended near the dragon. When a Goblin needed something moved, they simply moved the cage and the dragon followed, trying to get the wizard inside.

“It’s a variation of the carrot and the stick,” the Goblin said as Alecto Carrow fed him and Amycus Carrow tended to his irritated behind since he had gotten an itch down there a few hours earlier and inadvertently scratched it.

“You don’t say,” Lucius said absently. “Watch what you are doing down there, Carrow! I have to be able to sit down later today.”

“Fuck you, Lord Crapdigger,” came a vicious reply.

“Yes, another version of the carrot and stick where the wizard in the cage is the carrot and the dragon is of course the stick. You know, we did try this same thing with muggles centuries ago. But the dragons weren’t interested in the muggles. It’s something to do with the magic in a wizard’s body. It’s similar to catnip for a kneazle.”

Lucius knew only one thing after listening to the Goblin that day. He envied Dolohov for that job. What he wouldn’t give to have it now.

**-o0o-**

During breakfast on May 3rd, Draco made an announcement to Mrs. Brigtown. “School ends soon. Next month I turn 16. I will be a man then and can leave this hovel.”

Mrs. Brigtown gave him ‘the look’. He stared back at her for 10 more seconds before he finally took his seat again, cowed. “While you are only required to attend public school until the age of 16, you must be 18 to be considered an adult here, Mr. Malfoy. Now get back to your reading of that Bible.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He returned to his reading, but he would make his escape. After he had his date with Peggy this weekend, of course.

**-o0o-**

Narcy finished cleaning up at work, turned out the lights and locked the door as she readied for the 2-block walk back home. Outside she met Loo, the owner of Tattoos You, the shop next door.

They struck up a conversation and he invited her inside. An hour later she arrived back home and was met by an angry Gwen.

“Look at this!” Narcy smiled as she lifted her shirt and turned around. “Loo gave me a tattoo on the small of my back. It’s something for me to remember my son by. His name is Draco.”

Gwen was okay with the reason Narcy was late. Tats were cool in her book. Especially since Loo couldn’t spell.

**-o0o-**

Walden Macnair was on Lucius’ bottom detail. He hated it. He hated Lucius. Fortunately he had made a friend with one of the dragons in this facility. True, it was an invisible dragon, but he really liked Walden and wanted him to play Pass-The-Axe with him all the time.

**-o0o-**

In June 1996, Drake got his exit papers from secondary, or as Drake put it, his release papers. The adults at the school tried to impress on him to be the very best at what he could be. However, based off the scores they had seen and the interests he had shown over the past school year, they quietly passed him periodicals and references that might have appealed to him. Unfortunately, Drake Malfoy had no interest in pig farming or Alaskan fishing, or even working in a cannery. And the subtle hints at being a garbage collector had also fallen on deaf ears.

On June 5, 1996, he turned 16. Mrs. Brigtown made him his favorite breakfast and said, “While not an adult yet, you have opted to leave school, lad. Time to make a name for yourself.”

“I aim to do just that, Mrs. Brigtown. I will make the name Malfoy known to the entire world. I will get my magic back and make Potter pay for all that he has done to me.”

“And how do you plan to do this, young man?” Mrs. Brigtown inquired.

“I will need to travel the world to learn everything I can and then challenge him to a magical duel. I will prove one and for all that a Malfoy can do anything!”

“No shouting in here, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Draco replied quieter.

“Traveling the world will require funds. And that is something you don’t have.”

“Correct. That was something I thought of as well.”

“And your plans for that?”

“I can’t rob muggles to pay for it as that is against one of the 10 Commandments. If I stay here and get a job, I will likely end up staying here. After thinking this over for the past several months, I have decided to join the Defense Forces.”

“A good choice for a proper young man. When will you join?”

“I joined last week. My ride will be here soon to pick me up and take me to camp. I’m a bit young, but I can still join. Until we meet again, Mrs. Brigtown.” Draco shouldered a garbage bag of his remaining clothes and headed for the front door.

“You as well, Mr. Malfoy,” she replied, seeing him out of her house.

Draco waved farewell and strode down to the middle of town. He had to get out of town quick. Without magic, he couldn’t memory charm Peggy Sunderfield or her parents. Peggy and he had gone out on a few dates over the past few months. He had been early for that first date. Peggy had recently told him that she was late. And he knew what that meant.

It was time to get out of town before her father learned what they had done in the backseat of her car. And if rumors about old man Sunderfield were close to being correct, Draco would either marry Peggy (who was similar in size, strength, stature, and temperament of Millicent) or be used as fertilizer. Draco got on a local bus that took him well away from the town he’d been stuck in for the last year.

Draco took that and a couple other buses as far as he could. Eventually he ended up in Waterford, Ireland. As he contemplated his next move and where to acquire funds for that next move, he was accidentally bumped off the sidewalk by a few kids playing and ended up stumbling into the street. And, unfortunately, into the path of Tour Bus 106 which was bringing a tour to see where Waterford crystal was made.

Draco bounced his head off the pavement and when he subsequently woke days later in the hospital, he didn’t remember who he was or much of anything. He did remember the Bible though, so that was a good sign for the locals. He was taken in by an elderly couple who helped nurse him back to full strength. The limited documentation he had on him was eventually found and the two elderly grandparents smiled as they told the amnesiac what his name was. Weeks later Drake was up and moving quite well, if a little stiffly. He had managed to find a job in town selling women’s shoes to locals and tourists alike. It was only intended to be a temporary job he told himself.

Bob and Doreen, the grandparents that had taken Drake in months ago, needed to see their kids and grandkids in another town and invited Drake to come along. Hesitant at first, their easy smiles won him over and he went with them on a long car drive to Balnamore to see their son, Paul Sunderfield, his wife Linda, and their two grandchildren: Bobby and Peggy.

Drake was confused at the commotion but having read the Bible enough times he decided to do the right thing and marry Peggy. Their daughter, Kelly, was eventually joined by a younger brother, Bud. Drake moved them to Waterford to be near her grandparents and his temporary job. Years later, Drake realized he never left that temporary job as he joined the local affiliate of NO MA’AM (National Organization of Men Against Amazonian Masterhood).

He cursed his lot in life. He cursed his Dodge car. He cursed his absent memories. If only he could remember!

But he never did.

**-o0o-**

“Good morning, Narcy,” Loo said as he entered the hair salon one Saturday morning in late June. “Looking good as ever.”

“As well I should, Loo,” Narcy replied, pulling coloring gloves off her hands. “It takes an effort to look as good as I am.” She winked at the burly tattoo artist. “You ready?”

“You sure you’re up to this?”

“Of course. What can go wrong?” She sat in the chair and put her head back. Loo put on the same coloring gloves and began to liberally spackle the paste-like substance into her hair. It didn’t take long to cover her whole head. Minutes later he knew something was wrong.

“Narc,” he started. “I thought this was just going to color your hair.”

“It is,” she replied with dread in her voice based off the dread in Loo’s voice. “What color is it?”

“It’s not. All your hair just fell off.” He was looking at all her long strands on the floor.

“What?!” She got up and looked in the mirror. “I…! You…! My hair…! What…!” She looked around left, then right. Soon, the customers would start coming in. What was she to do? She looked at herself again in a wall mirror. Then again, only from another angle.

“You know,” she started, looking at Loo. “I still look good.”

“You do, baby,” he walked up behind her and put his hairy arm around her waist. “Wanna go fool around?” he said, nibbling her neck.

“Shop opens in 10 minutes. What can you do in 10 minutes?” she insinuated.

“Plenty,” he replied, tweaking something that this author isn’t going to mention.

She giggled and led him to the back room.

Days later she was in his shop after work while a photo shoot was going on. She was going to be in the next Tattoo Quarterly. Little did she know that she would be the cover girl as she sat suggestively on a motorcycle, her bald head sporting a new tattoo. That night found both of them celebrating late into the night at a biker bar. There was, as expected, a fight between various bikers. It was most enjoyable for all that attended. She went back to Loo’s place for the night.

Gwen, a squib assigned by Ed to monitor Narcissa (and make sure she didn’t break the statute), was concerned when she didn’t return by midnight. Ah well, she thought. There was nothing to be done at that point.

The next morning, Narcy came into the kitchen doing the walk of shame while wearing last night’s clothes. She saw Gwen and said she was going to be a little late to work as she needed some sleep. Gwen didn’t have the heart to tell Narcy that the Monitoring Rune kicked in last night at midnight. Ed had called earlier that morning and told her the news about Narcissa. Narcy had lost her magic and been squibbed once the Rune’s timer had counted down to 0. Gwen, a born squib, would tell her when she woke.

Narcy didn’t care she’d been squibbed with her sleep-over she told Gwen later. She finally had something worth living for.

**-o0o-**

Walden Macnair hated his lot in life. He was doing bottom duty while cleaning Lord Crapdigger’s bottom. It was the third time today that he had to clean his Lordship’s bottom. If only his invisible dragon friend hadn’t taken his axe away. He could make short work of this bottom and all it… wait. Buster? Was that Buster the Dragon?

“Buster?” Walden said wiping again.

“Macnair!” Lord Crapdigger snarled. “Watch what you’re doing! That’s a little rough… uh-oh. Here comes another round.”

Buster was back! “Buster, where did you go?” Walden looked over Crapdigger’s shoulder.

“Ow! Quit being so bloody rough there! Today is the last day to move that pile and I want to get it done early. Anything to get to that shower.”

“What do you mean you found someone else? How could you leave me?” Walden said to a wall.

“If you do bottom duty like this to whoever Buster is, I can see why he would leave,” Malfoy sarcasmed.

“What? She said that? Where’s my axe!” Walden said, looking around for his Ministry-approved killing axe. “Oh, that’s right, I’m holding it!”

Malfoy, long since used to his ‘staff’s’ odd timings and odder discussions, immediately shouted, “Red aler… nooooooo! Aaaarrrrgh!”

Macnair grabbed an axe (or what he considered an axe) and yanked hard a few times and then ripped the moorings holding it to the wall. He didn’t see Lord Crapdigger jerk forward, missing the back half of his behind and all of his privates. Lord Crapdigger wanted to live, but living wasn’t in his future. He managed to stumble over to the almost-gone Hippogriff dung pile, fell into it, and bled out.

The Goblin in charge showed up on the scene and put Macnair into Malfoy’s old digs. Macnair slept it off and the next day, Lucius’ caseworker appeared to tell Macnair what he had done. The attending Goblin then had the fun of explaining that Macnair got to take the shoveling spot as the new Crapdigger.

On the positive side, there were two silver linings. First, Macnair taking over Lucius’ spot meant he wouldn’t be having hallucinations any longer once he started in on the Crowberry poultice. Which was another way of saying he started the poultice right away. And second, the former Crapdigger’s blood having been mixed with some Crowberry poultice and Hippogriff dung made that shit pile even more magical and worth a higher price. That enriched dung, when later sold, would more than offset the cost of Lord Crapdigger’s funeral.

No one ever knew, however, that his funeral consisted of sending the body to the waste vats of Azkaban.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
I know, I know. I promise to get these chapters out quicker and it still takes me longer than it should. How am I going to reach the date I want this done by? Well… I have a nasty habit of writing out of sequence. I have created chapters 1 – 8 and should rightfully begin chapter 9. However, I skipped ahead and finished the last 3 chapters of this story. I always knew how it was going to end, and doing some of these middle chapters is not as much fun as doing the ending chapters.

Whenever I get stalled on one chapter, I skip around. I have already decided to remove at least one of the chapters I originally thought to include. Reason: it didn’t seem to add anything to the overall storyline. The more I thought on it, the more I realized I could use what happened to those Death Eaters as a backdrop in another chapter. And I’m not sure about one additional chapter that may or may not get the ax. The rest are staying.

Now, I am always looking for new ideas and one was given to me by a longtime reader of mine named Slytherin66. I have written chapters about students, an escaped prisoner, families of Death Eaters and their sympathizers, and even Death Eaters themselves. But I hadn’t written anything about any of the lousy teachers in Harry’s life. Shafting McGonagall will be showing up in the not too distant future. If anyone else can think of some shafting that needs to be done, speak up soon as the window for inclusions is closing.

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	10. Shafting the Crabbes and Goyles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shafting Crabbe and Goyle families

**Author’s Note:**  
My original idea for this chapter I ended up scrapping as I just wasn’t happy with it. It was going to end with Vince and Greg becoming enforcers for a local loan shark, but really, that was not much different from their time in Hogwarts. It needed to be something funny and vastly different to make enough of an impact that I wanted it to be here. Therefore, I give you the following chapter.

It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

The Goyle residence was, from a magical pureblood point of view, small and run down. It was on the outskirts of a small village that was easy enough to miss due to the high bushes next to the road. That, and the roundabout in the intersection had tall weeds growing in its center which blocked the exit to the village that the Goyle residence resided.

The village, once someone managed to find it, comprised of a few homes, a post office, a church, a burned-out home (that was the former priest’s digs) next to the church that hadn’t been fixed since it was torched as a lark by Greg Goyle and his childhood friend, Vincent Crabbe only six years earlier. Should someone have managed to drive past those buildings and continued on the road to nowhere, they would have encountered a 3-story semi-custom castle, or at least that was what the Goyle’s said it was. Had a building inspector actually seen the, ah, castle, they would have been surprised that the 3-story establishment was comprised with a main floor constructed of logs, a second floor constructed with stone (and not well-placed stone at that), and a third story constructed of discarded umbrellas pilfered for years from around England.

Still, the Goyle’s owned the home. After all, what bank would want to give them money to build that rat trap? The Goyle’s were good neighbors. They paid their taxes, they were quiet, and respected their neighbors. Well… more like, they paid their taxes, and then immediately imperiod whoever was the tax representative and got their money back. They were also quiet since they put up silencing wards at their property line. And let’s face it, they respected their neighbors but only considered the Crabbe’s who lived next door their true neighbors. All the rest were just useless.

On September 1st, the Goyle’s and the Crabbe’s sat down to a large luncheon to celebrate another 10-months free of kids. The four parents were sitting at a picnic table that strangely enough looked like it had once been bolted to cement at a seaside resort town, while loading up their plates. They were in the backyard of the Goyle residence, and the paint on the table and bench were fading fast.

They were startled out of their complacency first by a Goblin war cry coming from the tree line only a scant 10 meters away, and then by an arrow that was shot into the roast on a platter in the middle of the table. On the shaft of the arrow was a document neither read as they immediately got up to run since they saw four centaurs galloping towards them, eating up the open space almost instantly. Riding on the backs of the centaurs were Goblins twirling ropes like those American cowboys (not that they knew of cowboys, nor cared at the moment). They all screamed (the men higher and longer than their wives for some reason) and ran in different directions.

“Yee-hah!”

“Ride ‘em Centaur!”

“I got a runner!”

“They’re all running! Rope ‘em and brand ‘em!”

Each Goblin/centaur team chased down the chattel, roping them around the ankles first. Once down, the Goblin jumped off the centaur and ran to the wayward chattel and properly roped its arms behind its back, tied with the feet. The term was called being hogtied, not that the Goyle’s or Crabbe’s knew or cared.

“Time!” yelled the Goblin who had finished tying up Mr. Goyle.

“Five point six seconds,” came the calm reply of the centaur looking at the stopwatch given to him by his teammate earlier.

“Kneebasher! Your time?” the Goblin yelled.

Said Goblin was writing his time down on a paper, much like a golfer kept score, and yelled back, “Five point three seconds!”

Kneebasher came over to join Crotchkicker, a wicked grin on his face. “Let’s hope the other teams are a little slower. I want to win the Retrieval Cup.”

Crotchkicker grinned back. “Yeah, I want the cup too. But you know what? This retrieval was fun. Think the boss needs us to do more?”

“Never can say. Bane? Have the stars indicated anything around this?”

The centaur looked up from the stopwatch and replied, “A comet passed by last night. Ominous.”

“Meaning?” Kneebasher prompted.

“Don’t rule it out,” Bane commented.

Hopeful grins in place, Crotchkicker put in a call to Gringotts to send a security team to seal the Goyle residence for the boss.

“How did you two do?” Crotchkicker indicated the bound Crabbe parents.

Cowtipper let out a wicked snort with his cruel grin. “Roped in six point one seconds.”

Analprober winced at the time. “Five point one seconds for me.”

“I think our 10.9 seconds beats your 11.2 seconds, right?” Kneebasher gloated.

“Yes,” Analprober acknowledged while thinking of a way to vent that frustration. He looked at the unconscious wizards and witches. Walking up to the trussed witches and wizards, he reached into his satchel, rummaged around and pulled out… a stamper. It was a large-ish stamp. He opened a pad of red ink, shoved the stamper into the ink to get it good and wet, and then savagely stamped “Apprehended” on the foreheads of each chattel.

**-o0o-**

Greg and Vince were collected in Hogwarts, taken with the rest of the chattel, and interviewed by a muggle (they thought) named Jessica McCready. Once finished, they joined the rest of their friends in a large room where they ate food, drank something odd called Pepsi, and ate more food. They went to bed that night wondering if there would be Pepsi at breakfast.

The next day they were advised of their fate in a group meeting while wearing an ugly shirt. They and their friends were ushered into another room and each person in this group met with one of those not-muggle caseworkers one-on-one in a closed room. It was a surprise then that both Greg and Vince had been asked to come into a closed room together. There, they met Pierson.

“We are splitting up everyone in your group. However, we have been working on keeping family members together wherever they go. You two are a quandary for us. You are not brothers by blood, but you are brothers by circumstance,” he stated simply.

“What does that mean?” Vince said, looking at Greg.

“Dunno,” he answered Vince. Turning to Pierson, he said, “When’s lunch?”

“An’ can we get any sausages?” Vince smiled at Greg.

“Right,” Pierson snapped his fingers in front of them to get their attention. “Mentally, you two are brothers. We do not want to separate you. We feel you would do better together than alone. Do you agree to this?”

“Uh… yes?” Greg said for the two of them.

“Good. Because it was hard enough to find anyone to take you and having to find a second family to put one of you with was going to be more than a little difficult.” He filled out some papers and then looked back to the two boys. “You are being put into the foster care of the Rooter couple. They have experience raising children and live on a farm. You leave day after tomorrow. Any questions?”

Greg raised his hand.

“Yes, we have sausages on the food table for lunch today,” Pierson answered the unasked question while pinching the bridge of his nose, not for the last time.

Greg smiled and lowered his hand.

**-o0o-**

The next day they had their magic bound. It didn’t hurt either of them since their magical cores were small.

That night, “Vince?”

“Yeah?” he replied from his bed that night.

“What do you think living on a farm will be like?” Greg wondered.

“Probably not too hard. I mean, how hard can it be? You feed some animals in the morning, then you eat breakfast, then you tend plants like Herbology, and you eat lunch, and you do something in the afternoon and then you eat dinner. I’m sure they’ll have chicken, and pork chops, and steaks…”

“An’ sausages?”

“Yeah! And sausages. And fried potatoes, and cheese, and lots of pumpkin juice.”

The two continued to forecast what their lives would be like on the farm they were going to. It was wonderful. It was great. And it was full of rich foods that they could eat as if they lived at the Weasley home. All in all, they were happy with their choice. It didn’t sound too bad.

**-o0o-**

That morning, Jessica McCready met them after they had eaten breakfast. “You boys ready?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vince replied.

“Any questions before we portkey out?”

“Will they have sausages?” Greg wondered.

“I have no idea,” she responded automatically.

“How about some of that Pepsi? That was really good.”

“I have no idea. Okay, enough questions. Let’s get going.”

**-o0o-**

“Where are we?” Vince said as he helped Greg up off the ground where he had landed from the portkey trip.

“Derbyshire,” Jessica replied, indicating a house a few hundred meters up the dirt and gravel path. “We’re still in the UK if that is what you are wondering.”

It wasn’t what they were wondering, but they didn’t let her know that.

She walked them towards the house. It was isolated. They boys could not see any neighboring homes. Just… a lot of plants. As they came nearer to the home they made out more details. It was a two-story house with a large front porch. There were rocking chairs on the porch and a large barn just a dozen meters away. The barn was twice the length of the house and also two-stories.

“Good morning, Mrs. McCready,” said a male voice coming down the front porch steps. A woman made her way towards the two boys and the caseworker as well.

“Good morning, Mr. Rooter,” Jessica replied with a warm smile. “And please, call me Jessica.”

“And you please call me Dawn,” Mrs. Rooter replied next to the other man.

“And call me David,” he shook her hand.

“Thank you for taking these boys in,” she indicated her companions. “This is Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Boy, this is David and Dawn Rooter.”

“Good morning, kids,” David said jovially. “Welcome to our farm. Not much in the way of neighbors I have to admit. They are around, but we mostly keep to ourselves. We have 10 hectares here.”

“Really?” Vince’s eyes went wide, not really understanding what a hectare was, nor would they really get an understanding of what it was like when Dawn compared one hectare to the size of an average pro sports field. “What do you farm here? Cattle? Sheep? Thestrals?”

The Rooter couple chuckled. “Oh, no animals here I’m afraid. We’re a vegan farm.”

“So you farm vegans? That’s interesting,” Greg skimmed the surface of his understanding. He’d figure it out later, like he always did. “So do you have chickens here? I’ve always heard it’s good to eat fresh chickens.”

“And how often do you have pork chops for dinner?” Vince was hungry already.

“I don’t think you boys understand what a vegan is,” Dawn said matter-of-factly to the two confused boys. “Veganism is a strict type of vegetarianism that excludes meat and all animal products. We vegans do not eat meat, fish, eggs, dairy products, or any foods containing them. Our diet relies on plant-based foods including fruits, vegetables, grains, beans, nuts, and seeds.”

David continued, “Our farm here grows eggplants, kale, corn, tomatoes, potatoes, all sorts of lentils, zucchini, many different squashes, and so on.”

“You boys,” Dawn said, “will be homeschooled here. You will be getting up at 5am, beginning your chores as you learn to live off the land, eating a healthy and nutritious plant-based diet. You two don’t have any peanut allergies, do you?”

“What?” Greg managed to process, his horror growing.

“Peanuts. Any kind of nut, actually. No? You don’t know? That’s okay, we can find out. We keep an epi-pen on hand just in case.”

“What?” Vince managed to process, his horror growing like Greg’s.

“Now I know you boys are used to eating anything that was put in front of you. That is normal in today’s society,” David said. “But here, you are going to get back to nature. You will find you like eating vegan. Your bodies will lose all that fat and you will feel much better for it.”

“So you don’t eat chicken here?” Vince said with tears in his eyes.

“Or pork chops?” Greg’s voice began to crack.

“Or steak?”

“Heavens no,” Dawn smiled at the two boys. “That is all bad for you.”

“Pepsi?” Vince hoped.

“No. While not animal-based, that is a load of chemicals which is also bad for your body. We want to live a long, long time.”

“And,” Greg said in a feat of mental vaulting, “being a vegan will mean you will live longer?”

“Absolutely,” David replied. “Recent studies indicate that by eating a vegan lifestyle you will live at least one week longer than if you were to eat all those juicy, greasy hamburgers, fatty steaks slathered in cream sauces, greasy sausages, fried onions, fried chickens, fried ice cream, fried anything really. No, it is better to start eating healthy at a young age.

“Now, come on, boys. We’ll show you were your room will be, and then explain your chores and then start you on your homeschooling. It’s only a little after 9am now, so we have four hours before lunch.”

“And wait until you see what we will be having for lunch,” Dawn smiled reassuringly. “It’s my own interpretation of zucchini with chickpea-mushroom stuffing. You’ll love it.”

“And tonight, you boys are going to help me make a quinoa and black bean salad,” David clapped his hands on their shoulders as he directed them towards the house.

“Good luck, boys,” Jessica said, to the two boys as they shuffled behind David towards the house. She didn’t see their tears of despair at not having sausages in the near future, or any future on the horizon.

**-o0o-**

“Tonight?” Vince said to his slimmer best friend. “We’ve been here a week already.”

“Tonight,” Greg answered with certainty. “I can’t stand any more of these eggplant breakfasts instead of real eggs. I need sausages!”

“I’m with you, brother. I cannot stand another night of Agedashi-esque Tofu. I need pork chops!”

Near midnight, the two boys quietly made their way down the stairs and let themselves outside. It was a cool night, but not cold. Well away from civilization, there also wasn’t much light pollution to obscure the evening sky. However, the sky was overcast, promising rain later. Unable to navigate by stars or the moon, they made their best guess as to which way to go and set out at a brisk pace, visions of dancing meat patties dancing in their heads.

They made about 10 meters before they ran into an obstacle. Or more like, they took one step past 10 meters and their foot did not contact the ground. Instead it hit open air and they tumbled down into a hole. And not just any hole, they recalled. It was a pit that Mr. Rooter had dug earlier that day for the new outhouse.

“Vince? My ankle hurts.”

“Yeah. Mine too. Want to crawl out?”

“Yeah.”

They started crawling, but the muck, mud, and soft dirt was unable to be breached. Or it could have been breached had they thought to use their size and strength to help one another, but they didn’t and so spent the rest of the night in that crappy little hole, in pain, and when the rain fell later, they were wet as well.

They were found in the morning by Mr. Rooter who didn’t seem all that surprised.

**-o0o-**

It was mid-October. Near midnight. For dinner that night, the boys and the Rooter couple had enjoyed couscous with olives and sun-dried tomatoes. Or better to say, the Rooters enjoyed it while the boys ate it on autopilot.

This time the sky was not overcast and they could see where the new outhouse was. They set out in the same direction as before, avoided the outhouse trap, and made their way up the path only to find it abruptly ended at a gate with a sign on it stating, “Wrong way”. Not sure what to make of that, they tried another path near them and soon found another sign stating, “One Way” in the shape of an arrow. They followed it. They found a few more signs and eventually ended up back at the house, hungry (as usual) and now thirsty for some water. Mr. Rooter was waiting for them and chuckled good naturally while putting them back to bed.

**-o0o-**

Near Christmas, the Rooters were shocked when Gregory and Vincent hadn’t known what that was, instead calling it the winter solstice celebration, which in turn required a full night’s explanation of what Christmas was and why it was so important. Clearly, they felt, their education had suffered while at that boarding school. Still, the boys helped put up a tree, decorate it, and when finished, they went into town for supplies with David who decided to drive the ‘69, gas-guzzler that it was.

The boys sat in the front with David. Months earlier that hadn’t been possible with as big as each boy was then, each being about 100 kilograms. Now, they were down to about 65 kilograms each, having shed approximately 70-75 pounds. David knew that would be good for their hearts, and their joints.

In town, they picked up supplies that he and Dawn could not grow on the farm. As much fun as living there was, they still needed civilization and some of the comforts it gave. Dawn certainly loved her Cajun spices, he thought fondly. There were many more things on the list he brought with him. Soap, toilet paper, nuts, and so on. He paid for his order, had the boys help him load it securely, and then went back inside for a quick moment. He returned within a minute, started the truck and pulled out.

“Boys,” he started. “I want you both to know I’ve been impressed with you for the last couple months. It hasn’t gone unnoticed. And since it’s the Christmas season, I wanted to give you these.” He handed them something small.

They looked at their hands and saw he had given them each two lemon drops.

“Eat up, boys. Can’t let Mrs. Rooter see you having that, now can we?”

They put their lemon drops in their mouths and started sucking in all the sweet, glorious sugar like ravenous beasts, minus the sounds of a carnivorous predator ripping a smaller animal to pieces.

“Now don’t tell Mrs. Rooter about this, right?”

“Yes sir!” they chorused.

That night, near midnight, Greg woke to something. He wasn’t sure at first. He sat up on his bed and sniffed. There. It was nearby. He got up, opened the bedroom door and sniffed some more. It was maddeningly nearby!

Vince woke too. He was about to ask Greg what he was going when he, too, smelled it. Rising, he joined Greg descending the stairs, still sniffing. They went outside and sniffed some more. Closer and closer they made their way to the pickup. Opening the cab door they both caught the scent.

Sugar.

They furiously investigated, looking behind the seat, lifting the seat, looking under the seat. A few minutes later they found it. There was an extra lemon drop neither had gotten. It was obvious what they had to do.

“Mine!” they both shouted at the same time, both holding onto that sweet candy.

Their eyes narrowed at one another.

“Let go!”

“You let go!”

This type of conversation continued for another few minutes before Greg threw the first punch. For years, they had been Malfoy’s hired muscle. They may not have done that well in class, but they knew being big wasn’t going to be enough considering the number of enemies Draco acquired every time he opened his mouth. From their first year forward, they had taken some sort of physical training. Usually interrogation techniques such as breaking fingers, popping joints, gouging eyes out, that kind of thing. So it was no surprise that when Greg threw that first punch, he meant it to do some serious damage to his best buddy, Vince.

Vince, of course, saw the blow coming, countered it and began throwing punches of his own. Greg began to counter those and return blow for blow. It was a Christmas miracle that neither laid a deadly blow on the other. They did, however, manage to get in a couple good blows on each other. Greg got a cut in over Vince’s left eyebrow which bled more than it hurt. Vince clubbed Greg’s ear so that he’d be hearing ringing for hours to come. And both got in blows on the jaw.

The blows to the jaw was the last blow for each of them, ironically. They both stopped immediately, not looking at their swollen hand they used to punch the other one, but because their jaw instantly hurt.

“Owwwww,” they complained to one another, holding their mouths.

Worse, their fighting had woken up Mr. and Mrs. Rooter who were standing on the porch with hands on their hips and stern expressions mirroring the rest of their body language.

Knowing something of first aid, Mrs. Rooter brought the boys into the kitchen, sat them down and looked at their injuries. It didn’t take her long to discover that both boys had broken their jaws.

**-o0o-**

The next morning the two boys were driven back to town to the local dentist where he informed Dawn and David Rooter that each one had indeed broken their jaws, and that they needed said jaws wired shut for the next two months. It’s not going to be fun for the two boys he informed them. The Rooter couple said to go ahead and do it.

Jessica McCready showed up well after the dentist began his work. “David? Dawn?” she started. “I want to tell you I am so sorry to hear what happened. I had no idea these two scamps would do something like that. I want you to know that additional funding has been put into your account to cover this mess. You will have more than enough to cover this.”

David waved the apology off. “Not to worry, Jessica. We aren’t unaware of what it is like to go through meat withdrawals. We actually figured them fighting about it would eventually happen.”

“Those boys taking it to this level was a little more than we anticipated, though,” Dawn continued. “But it’s all good. Now they will have to eat what is prepared with blenders. All organic. All vegan. Our own sons were a little rebellious as well, so we know what having spirited youngsters is like. We’ll get them straightened up. And when they can eat normally again, I don’t think they will be grumbling about it then.”

The boys, overhearing the entire conversation, just cried some more. The Rooters were trying to starve them is what they were doing.

**-o0o-**

Back home, Dawn brought Vince and Greg to the family room. “Kids, David and I have been talking. You two are still adjusting to your new vegan lifestyle and we realize it will take a little more adjustment on your part. Still, we want to make the period while you are on the mend a little more pleasant than you have been experiencing. While you will be having meal smoothies for the next few months, which will contain additional nutrients to help you heal, we have found a specialist to help make your shakes and smoothies much more interesting.”

Footsteps behind the boys made them turn around. They immediately saw someone that looked like May-Eye Moody, although without a peg-leg. Or a mad-eye.

“Professor Moody?” Vince exclaimed.

“Who? Wait. You’ve met my cousin? Of course you have. You look like a couple of wankers. I’m Bad Pie Roody. And I’m going to be your chef for the next few months. And I’m going to teach you to cook, you ugly sacks of shit!”

“Roody,” Dawn chastised.

“Ah! Right, calm the insults down. Got it. I’m working on it. Meanwhile, I’m going to teach these two the most important thing to know about what I do.”

“Constant Vigilance!” Greg kind of said through his wired jaw.

“Hah! Now I know for sure you two have met my cousin. No, you little wankers. Moody thought he was so cool to create that catchphrase to compete with mine.”

“What is yours, sir?” Vince mumbled.

“Easy enough. Constant Flatulence! Hah, ha-ha!”

“I don’t get it,” Greg said to Vince.

“You will, boy. You will. You will learn why Mad-Eye had to have constant vigilance around me. Hah, ha-ha!”

**-o0o-**

“Boys,” Roody said that evening when he blended and otherwise crushed into a soupy mess their first meal. “I think you are going to like this shake. It’s full of protein and tastes like roast beef. It’s a special recipe of mine.”

“Wow,” Vince exclaimed through clenched teeth. “This is great!”

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” Greg agreed, sucking on the straw as much as he could.

Their tummies rumbled moments after they finished sucking and the tooting began as a low crescendo and built up decibel after decibel until they couldn’t hear anything but toot after toot.

“Constant Flatulence! Hah, ha-ha!” Roody chortled as David Rooter entered the dining room, took a whiff and indicated the two boys were to leave the house for the time being.

Hours later they were let back in. They immediately changed their clothes which in turn were put in vats of Clorox to get the smell out. Greg was only too happy to do this as the constant tooting had left a smell that was a cross between ammonia and sulpher.

“Vince?”

“Yeah?”

“That really was a good smoothie.”

“Yeah. I wonder if we can get it again in the morning.”

**-o0o-**

The next morning, Roody provided them, David and Dawn with a fancy breakfast. Unfortunately, while David and Dawn’s breakfast was nicely laid out and looked as well as smelled so appetizing, Vince and Greg could not eat that. They got a blended version of that breakfast.

There was no tooting.

This pattern repeated itself meal after meal for days. The boys let their guard down. Lunch on the fourth day the boys sucked down their shake. The tooting began almost immediately.

“Constant Flatulence! Hah, ha-ha!”

They left the house immediately and returned well after dinner, clothes went into a Clorox bath, and they scrubbed themselves down to get rid of the residual scent.

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“We smelled worse this time.”

“Yeah. It was ten times worse.”

“If this keeps up, we’re going to have to sleep in the outhouse to mask our fart stink.”

“Yeah.”

**-o0o-**

Roody repeated his flatulence attacks on the boys several more times. They did learn to be wary of anything he gave them unless they watched what he did like a hawk. Their tooting subsided over the weeks until they went the last few weeks of their wired-mouth-time without so much as one smelly incident.

Roody stayed on making the family meals and teaching the boys how to make vegan meals they would enjoy.

One Saturday in mid-April, they again went with Mr. Rooter for more supplies. He was on a triple-T supply run. That consisted of tea, toilet paper, and tabasco sauce. They again helped David load the truck and again he went into the store for something else. He returned with two small bags that he gave to the boys with a wink. Looking in the bags, they saw a handful of chocolate covered raisins.

Remembering what happened last time they had candy, they waited to eat them, thanking Mr. Rooter for the candy but instead stuffing them in their pockets. They would skip eating them. They didn’t need it. After all, they were vegans now.

That mental persuasion didn’t last for them unfortunately. Shortly after dinner, they retreated to their room and began eating the precious chocolate covered raisins. Moments after they swallowed the delicious treats, they began breaking wind like there was no tomorrow. It soon became a wind storm in their room. The smell became too much even for them and they opened their window. Still, that wasn’t enough and Mr. Rooter showed up at their door saying they needed to go outside until it ended.

Vince and Greg left the house and went to the barn.

“This is rank,” Greg said to Vince.

“Yeah. It’s worse than before.”

“Yeah. Want to hang out by the outhouse?”

“Constant Flatulence! Hah, ha-ha!”

**-o0o-**

Roody opened the barn door at first light. “Hah, ha-ha! It is rank in here, you wankers!” he yelled to the two boys waking up near the bags of manure they slept by which partially masked each other’s smells. “Enjoy last night’s sleep?”

“It was awful,” Greg complained. “Vince smelled terrible.”

“And Greg couldn’t stop tooting.”

“So, do you little cretins understand the significance is with what happened to you yesterday?”

Vince and Greg looked at each other and gave it some serious thought. “It was the raisins, right?” Vince finally said.

“So, it appears there is a brain between the two of you. Yes, it was related to the raisins. But not the raisins themselves. Any other guesses?”

“Uh, it was the chocolate,” Greg guessed.

“Very good! It was the bloody chocolate. Any guesses as to why?” They had used up that day’s allotment of thinking. “You two have been eating my special foods for months. It’s affected your stomach for one thing. And your body chemistry. It is anti-sugar based. What that means is if you eat something you shouldn’t, then it’s phrt, phrt, PHRTY! And that’s all she wrote! Hah, ha-ha!”

“How long will that last?” Greg wanted to know.

“Last? You mean, like when will it end? It won’t end. You will always have it,” Roody chuckled.

“What? Why?” Vince was shocked. He would never be able to eat ginger biscuits again?!

Roody got into their faces. “Need to keep that weight off both of you, ya little stinkers! Constant Flatulence! Hah, ha-ha!” He left them to think over what their lives… er… diet would be like going forward.

“Now I understand why Professor Moody was in a foul mood all the time,” Vince said to Greg, who nodded in agreement.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
Yes, Bad Pie Roody is a character from Rorschach’s Blot story: Let’s Do the Time Warp Again. If you haven’t read his story, then I suggest you give it a shot. It is quite enjoyable. And yes, I couldn’t help myself from swiping that character and playing with it. It just “sort of” popped in my head.

I have 8 more chapters from this point. It may go up, but won’t go down. Five of those chapters are complete and being cleaned up. The other 3 are well underway.

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	11. Shafting Poppy, and the Flints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poppy's past is revealed

**Author’s Note:**  
It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

Nearing noon on September 1st, Sebastian Flint and his son, Marcus Flint, were in the Evil Pugnacious Brewery in Knockturn having a few pints. Contrary to popular belief by those families that never strayed past the Diagon armistice line to enter Knockturn, it did not poison its drinks on those unsuspecting patrons who entered its doors. They did offer to sell poison so that others inside the establishment could poison their neighbors, but not while they were inside, and never so that it could be traced back to the proprietors. As a side business, the owners also sold antidotes.

Sebastian and Marcus had been in the place for the past 20 minutes and were already on their third mug of… something foamy. “I’m telling you, Dawson!” Sebastian slurred to another patron who was doing his best to ignore the older Flint. “It was all my doing! All of it! I had the idea to get Potter’s wand snapped, and look what happened?! It happened, I tell you! Snapped. Right, son?”

“Right, father,” a buzzed Marcus said, while hitting on a hag that he had no idea was a hag since the hag’s glamour gave her a large brown beehive hairdo, large red lips, blue eyes, and a curvy figure, all of which she did not have in the slightest.

“Ha, ha, haaa!” chortled Sebastian. He emptied his mug and slammed it on the counter. “Another! And one for my friend, um, Dagwood, no, um, Dawson! Drink up! It’s only good times now!”

Estee Lauder (no relation) patted a further-inebriated Marcus’ knee. Dinner in looked like a very good possibility, she grinned, almost drooling.

A clock chimed noon. Sebastian paid no attention to it, but he did pay attention to the mug at his lips being shot out of his hand with an arrow that had a letter attached to it. Looking at where the arrow came from, he noticed a centaur with a Goblin on its back who uncaringly twirled the type of manacles used by kings in their dungeons centuries ago. Worse, the Goblin was smiling.

Sebastian Flint knew trouble when he saw it and took off as fast as he drunken legs would take him. Marcus didn’t see his father scamper for the back room as he was flabbergasted that his drink was leaking out of an arrow hole. The pretty girl he was talking to backed up and he immediately noticed a Centaur and a Goblin headed his way. Like his father, he ran for safety.

Pity his definition of safety wasn’t anything better than jumping behind the bar itself and grabbing some of the plastic sword-doohickeys bartenders use to skewer olives with and put in fancy drinks, er… antidotes. He saw his problem immediately when the manacles clamped around his wrists. He looked up and saw the Goblin grinning and checking a watch. The Centaur kept Marcus from fleeing by using the simplest method: he stood on Marcus’ foot. It was a good thing Marcus was drunk and wouldn’t notice the pain until later as his foot had been broken in 4 different places.

Sebastian came running from the other back room entrance and headed for the front door. The Centaur and Goblin chasing him were in pursuit.

“Yee-ha!” the Goblin cheered, swinging his manacles above his head like a lasso.

The other patrons, all four of them, saw then entire action and were glad of one thing: that it wasn’t happening to them.

“You don’t see that every day, do you?” Dawson said quietly to the hag.

“Nope. Wonder what they did to piss off the Goblins?”

“They must’ve gotten behind on their payments to the Gringotts or somethin’.”

“Pity. Marcus looked rather tasty.”

Manacled, Marcus was dragged from the Evil Brewery as he couldn’t walk very well on a broken foot. “Seven point six seconds,” Rowlf (no relation) the Centaur announced to his colleague, TrickyDick.

“I don’t think the cup will be ours this year, my friend.”

Sebastian Flint ran by his manacled son without a pause to help him out. Boweldislodger was still twirling the manacles above his head and laughing like this was the best thing since blood pudding, which it really was. Even Hindquarter was enjoying the hunt as he used his arrows to shoot near the wizard and force him to circle back and alert those still in Knockturn that it wasn’t wise to mess with a Centaur.

“No,” Rowlf agreed. “I think you are correct. Those two are having fun,” he indicated the second part of their team.

TrickyDick contemplated the situation. “Want to let him go? We could chase him down again.”

A scream and more shouting was heard nearby. They both saw other Centaur/Goblin teams hunting the chattel only a few dozen meters away, in the Diagon Alley boundary. They did not wish to get in their way or assist them in any capacity. It would have been unsporting, they knew.

Rowlf’s smile grew. “Let’s do it.”

In all, Marcus Flint was captured and released another six times before the final capture was done, and that was only due to him being so unable to move as he had quite a few more broken bones in his body.

**-o0o-**

Poppy woke up September 2nd in her room that was adjacent to the hospital wing of the castle. It was a small room, but comfortable. She looked at her wind-up clock on her nightstand. It was after 8 am. Strange, she thought. Why was she getting up so late? First day of classes had started and she would need to… wait. No classes, she remembered. That’s right. The school was being closed.

“Crap,” she muttered, rising, dressing and doing other normal morning routines that she had done for the past two decades. “Crap, crap, crap.”

She was out of a job.

She was only 72 years old. She still had another good thirty years in her, she knew. She needed to find another job. Well, at least she had socked away her salary for retirement after landing her job at Hogwarts.

**-o0o-**

“Crap,” she snarled, angrily. “Crap, crap, crap!” She looked around her room. Breakfast had ended over two hours ago. The Headmaster had announced that the Hogwarts Express would return the next day to return all the children back to London. The children were still numb. She wasn’t sure what kind of calming draughts they would need. And, after checking her financial situation with Gringotts, she found out she needed a calming draught herself.

She looked at her financial report again. The 18,614G she had in her Gringotts account had been frozen pending an audit into malfeasance on the part of the Hogwarts administration.

She had been around the block too many times to not realize what that meant. Someone here at the school was going to get shafted. And most likely it was going to be those in the trenches. In other words: she was likely to lose some, most, or all of her retirement. Her intuition was spot on as the audit later revealed poor money management by all the Headmasters and all their staff (which included her) for the past several centuries, and as a consequence, all frozen accounts were confiscated to pay outstanding debts and return what it could to Mr. Potter. As far as Gringotts would note months later when the audit finished, Poppy Pomfrey would then be dead broke.

Poppy woke up later that afternoon from her hangover… er… her slight rest from taking a calming draught (aka, a couple shots of Jameson Irish Whisky). She took a quick assessment of her situation. One: she was out of a job. Two: she was out of money. Three: her immediate family was no longer with the living. Four: by tomorrow, she would not have a place to stay. Five: her parents hadn’t left her anything when they died, having instead given it to her aunt, Barbara Schafer who had since died. Six: Aunt Barbara’s son, Nigel, wasn’t in any of the wizard directories. She speculated that he had probably taken the money and left the country. He had never been heard from again and she had no way to contact him now. With nothing better to do, she had written a letter earlier to her cousin asking for some help or at least a place to stay, but the owl she tried to give it to had refused which she knew was an indicator that the owl did not know where to find Nigel.

There was no way that she could maintain her quality of life, bare that it was, by not taking the dragon by the horns or however that useless saying went, she thought irritably. By 7pm on the third, she needed a place to go, preferably with a job, or she would be hoofing it to the village and camping out either in an inn, a barn, or something else unpleasant. Right! There was only one thing to do here.

She swallowed her pride, removed the Red Cross donated clothing, put her leather outfit back on that had been collecting dust for the past few decades and headed out to see someone for a job.

**-o0o-**

“Hagrid?” Poppy knocked on the half-giant’s door.

Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank opened the door of Hagrid’s hut. Fang shot out to slobber on the person at the door, but overshot the mark and instead bolted for the forest in fear. “Fang!” Wilhelmina yelled after the retreating dog.

“Wilhelmina, do you know where Hagrid is or when he will return?”

“Nah. He certainly picked a bloody awful time to take some personal time off, let me tell you. Leave me to find homes for all these beasts, will he?”

“Have you been able to locate any place to take them?” Poppy inquired, looking at the various creatures squirreled away here and there.

“A few. Not all. I’ve been at this since the Goblins came last night. I am exhausted.”

“You mean you haven’t rested yet? Or done anything else? That is certainly dedication considering,” Poppy said as the two of them neared the threstal paddock.

“Considering what?” Wilhelmina prompted, not liking where this was going.

“All Hogwarts finances were frozen as of this morning. That includes the teacher’s finances. I image yours too.”

“What?! Shit! That’s it! Albus can go fuck himself if he thinks I’m doing this for free!”

“I totally agree,” Poppy said. “That is why I am no longer a nurse and have to find something else to do. I have nothing to my name other than my skills and my experience.”

“Poppy,” Wilhelmina said, “I’m sure you will find a job as a nurse again.”

“Not bloody likely. No training in that really.”

“What?! But you’ve been a nurse here for over two decades.”

“Yes. But Albus asked me to fill in here when Mediwitch Cherice McDougal came down with a bad case of dragon-polkaspots and couldn’t return to caring for the children for at least another 14 months. One thing led to another and soon Albus was calling me the school nurse, got me a certificate to that effect with the title and everything.”

“Really? Wow, that explains a few things. So if you do not have a healer’s background,” Wilhelmina started.

“Oh, I have a healing background. It’s just not… well… traditional.”

“Not traditional? What do you mean?”

Sigh. “My background is being a magical veterinarian.”

“Wow. That explains even more. So you were here to…” Wilhelmina prompted.

“Check the health of the magical creatures. I had been here for a week working with Hagrid. Then Cherice got sick and the rest you know.”

“So… you were a vet, working with Hagrid and got tagged to fill in as the school nurse, right?”

“Right in one,” Poppy said, putting her vet bag on the ground and pulling out some of the tools of trade. “Now it’s time to get back at it. I can’t retire without a something to live on. I only hope I can find a job. But, better get my vet skills back up to where they need to be. Do you need me to check the health of any creatures?”

**-o0o-**

Bane met with member of the magical quad council. Per an agreement made centuries ago, ambassadors were to meet in the neutral clearing in the center of the forest. Had human magicals known the quads met there, they would have likely assumed it was some sort of holy ground. It was not holy. It was not sacred. It was simply a clearing that had been used by house elves when Hogwarts had first opened. The house elves those many centuries ago had established free time which they used to make music.

But they were horrible when they tried to make music. They routinely dressed in black, wore berets, pummeled bongos, spouted nonsensical poetry and music lyrics about cooking ingredients as well as cooking recipes. Once they finished a performance, they showed their appreciation by snapping their fingers much like humans would clap when they saw something they liked, such as watching a boy hitting a rat with a rotted peach.

Centuries passed. The elves quit coming to that clearing. But the forest did not forget what happened there. And so trees avoided growing in that place. Grass was not so picky. Eventually it was deemed neutral ground by the quad council. They all had the same reason to make it neutral: no one wanted to do anything that might incur the eagerness of the house elves to return to that clearing and begin banging bongos again.

Bane walked into the clearing, the night sky well seen that evening. Moments later two thestrals landed and walked closer to him. Using a combination of non-verbal communication, whinnying and foot thrusts, Bubbly said, “I thought our people had a deal!”

“What do you mean?” Bane said aloud.

Cuddly responded to that by somehow saying, “We provide you intelligence about what is going on at that bloody castle and you keep the great anal prober away from us! Taking our temperature; yeah – right!”

“Please explain what is going on,” Bane instructed.

Cuddly and Bubbly spent a few minutes informing Bane the fallout from the previous day’s Goblin collections. That the bipeds were on the move from the castle and that the great anal prober was asking about resuming her old duties which might happen once friend Hagrid moved all the herds.

“It must not happen!” Cuddly stomped on the ground with a fierce determination.

“Get rid of her!” Bubbly backed up his fellow thestral.

Bane looked up to the night sky. He saw things that most did not, including the thestrals. He looked back at his fellow quads. “We will need a new deal.”

“What do you want?” Bubbly asked, his eyes narrowing.

“My kind can see things in the night sky. We can see things far away, and even far-far away.”

“Yeah…?” Cuddly prompted.

“But,” Bane started sheepishly. “We can’t see things up close as well as we would like. We need some reading glasses.”

“You can’t read?” Bubbly said.

“Oh, we can read. Those wizards haven’t gotten rid of that ability in us. Not that they haven’t tried.”

“But…?” Cuddly prompted.

“The writings are fuzzy. And, the bipeds have something new that has come to our attention. Something… magical.”

“Duh,” Cuddly snarked. “They are wizards and witches.”

“No,” Bane explained. “It was not the magicals that created this new thing. It was the non-magicals. And we need reading glasses to see it properly.”

“Sounds interesting,” Bubbly agreed. “What is it?”

“It’s something that they call ‘comic strips’. It’s in their newspapers. The younger foals can read them, but the older you get, well… you know how it is.”

“Comic strips?” Cuddly started.

“Yeah. I really want to catch up with Doonesbury or Cathy, or even The Far Side.”

“I don’t get it,” Cuddly said.

“Think of it as concentrated stories, told much differently. Like, a murder mystery except that it is from a bug’s point of view.”

“Can’t your foals just read them to you?” Cuddly tried to understand.

“They can and they do. But the stories have pictures as well. And the foals do not know how to describe some of what they see. I so want to see what happens when a young non-magical biped and a tiger have to stave off an epic snow-goon encounter. Think of what we can learn from this!”

“Wow!” Bubby said. “Those ‘comic strips’ sound interesting. I can understand why you want to see it. Can we get them some glasses?” This last was directed at the other thestral.

Cuddly responded. “Yeah, sure. We’ll just swipe some from the kids leaving tomorrow. It’s not like that lot ever notices anything.”

Bane stood proudly (like that was any different). “Then we have an accord! Glasses for us and we shall in turn get rid of the Great Anal Prober!”

**-o0o-**

Hagrid and Olympe were somewhere in Europe when early in the morning an owl showed up with a message attached to his leg. The owl presented its message to Hagrid. Getting the sleep out of his eyes, he read the letter twice before its message finally soaked in.

“‘Agrid? Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

“Mmm, bad news frum home,” Hagrid said with a sigh. “School’s gone.”

“The Death Eaters ‘ave attacked?”

“Ah, no. Shouldna’ said it tha’ way. Foreclosure. Bad bizness, that. An’ now I got ta find new homes fer all th’ creatures.”

“You are welcome to come wiz me to Beauxbatons. All magical creatures too.”

“Whew. Thanks, Olympe. Ah’ll write Bane back and agree ta his suggestins.”

“Who? And what suggestions?”

“Oh, ah, one uf th’ Centaurs. Leader, actually. One of ‘em anyway. He said he’ll watch over all th’ larger herds while me assistant’ll be sent wit’ the other creatures ta wherever I want her ta go.”

“You have an assistant?” Olympe said in very clear English.

“Oh, aye. Not real well known. Poppy was me assistant years ago. ‘Guess the paperwork is still valid fer her. I’ll let Bane know I’ve reactivated her vet seal and ta hand her this letter sayin’ she should head to France wit’ the smaller herds. Ah know she won’t git paid ‘till we git back frum here, but at least she’ll have room an’ board.”

“Sensible, ‘Agrid.” And equally sensible not to return too soon, she thought, pulling Hagrid in to another kiss.

**-o0o-**

Snap! Poppy adjusted the latex glove on her hand and went to adjust the other hand. She looked up as Centaur exited the forest on an intercept course. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Ready for me to take your temperature?” She held up an ominous probing device. Bane shuddered.

“I have a message from Hagrid,” Bane said, holding out the letter he received from Hagrid only minutes earlier.

“Can you read it to me while I get my equipment ready to see to your general health?” She began moving around and pulling one ominous gadget out of her bag after another. By the Great Pumpkin! That bag was a never-ending horde or horror!

“Yes, I will read it.” Bane held the letter out from his body as far as it would go and then squinted. “Poppy. Stop. Am on official business. Stop. Have re-activated your vet seal certificate. Stop. Your last position was as my assistant. Stop. That position is re-activated per Groundskeeper Rule 5.4.A of the official Ministry Groundskeeping Act of 1706. Stop. You need to get the smaller animal herds to Beauxbatons. Stop. Madame Maxime has counter-signed this letter at bottom. Stop. Re-locate smaller herds there as soon as you can. Stop. Leave bigger herds to care of Bane. Stop. I will meet you in France as soon as I can. Stop. Until Madame Maxime back in Beauxbatons, she cannot authorize you pay, but you will be getting room and board. Stop. See you in November or December. Stop.”

Bane looked down on the female biped. “In short, Poppy of the Pomfrey’s, you are to move all magical creatures the size of friend Hagrid’s canine companion and smaller. I and my kind will oversee the rest of those larger herds that must be left behind when you leave at nightfall.”

“I’m going to France?” she was in shock. Leave Britain? The center of the magical world?

“Think of it as a new adventure. You know what they say: don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Hasta la vista, baby. Cheerio! Amscray. Arrivederci. Off you go! Toot suite and all that. Pip, pip! Adios! Hey, look at that comet!”

Bane left the still shell-shocked vet tech while the getting was good and the anal probing was not happening.

“And I’m still not getting paid?!” she all but shouted.

**-o0o-**

On Friday, November 3rd, Poppy found herself rousted out of her makeshift lean-to that some of the older students had put together for her at Beauxbatons as the master groundskeeper hut had been magically sealed and she did not have permission to enter. While essentially a vet tech, as well as a medi-witch, she was technically still a creatures apprentice which meant certain things to certain people. Or in other words, apprentices were treated like crap by their masters, even if said masters were not in residence yet. And by extension, she was treated like crap by much of the student body who had high expectations of masters, and low regard for apprentices.

Madame Maxine had sacked the old groundskeeper at her school once she found she could keep Hagrid safely with her. After Hagrid had penned (or quilled) his letter to Poppy, Olympe had scrawled a note to Groundskeeper Willy (no relation) that was short and to the point. She had meant to delay his leaving until Hagrid and she returned, but she was lost in Hagrid’s dark eyes and didn’t want that old groundskeeper to stay around her school, polluting its presence with his foul Scottish accent any further than he had to. Besides, she thought, Hagrid’s assistant would be up to the task and would be there within a day so no harm, no foul.

Neither of them took into consideration that Willy was a vindictive old bastard who locked everything up, requiring the Headmistress to use her command overrides to open the paddocks, open the groundskeeper house, and so on. He had locked everything up as tight as he could. He was heading out the main gate as Poppy was preparing to leave England with the smaller creatures in tow.

She arrived in France, went through customs, made it to the school, found the deputy (or whatever Olympe called it), and handed him the note with Olympe’s authorization and Hagrid’s orders. He in turn nodded, instructed her where to integrate her creatures with the other ones for the class that she would (surprise) be teaching, and then gave her the: you’re-an-apprentice-so-don’t-get-above-your-station speech. He showed her to the groundskeeper house, noticed it was locked, failed to unlock it, shrugged his shoulders at her question of where she was going to sleep, and then left her to it. Her meals were delivered via house elf, which to no one’s surprise, let alone hers, didn’t speak a word of English, and she was not allowed into the school proper until she could comport herself like a proper magical apprentice. She knew what that meant as well. She’d dealt with French snobs before. It meant: clean up before coming in. Unfortunately, the only way to clean up was to use a shower that was in the groundskeeper house that she couldn’t get in.

She ended up sleeping in one of the barns, keeping the monster book of monsters tethered nearby to keep the other, more savage creatures at bay. She had always liked Robert, her monster book. And for some reason, Robert liked her. Well, enough to not draw blood anymore at least. It still liked to snap on her wrist somewhat playfully. That would probably explain why she liked to sleep with a riding crop nearby.

The next day she began teaching classes in Hagrid’s absence. The less said of that the better. She had an odd way of teaching. Since she had medi-witch training (on-the-job training at that), she could heal injuries that happened in her outdoor classroom. Surprisingly, once the children understood that this new professor, no…, apprentice-professor would allow them enough rope to hang themselves to the point of near-death as they knew she could keep them dying at least outright, they began to take the lessons a lot more seriously.

But there was one thing those kids would not let go, she knew. They would not take steps to learn English. They persisted in speaking French!

This did cause some friction and now, months later, she woke up in the lean-to that some of her students had built for her. It had running water and everything. But the running water was due to those same students building her hovel over a steam and if she got out of bed the wrong way, she’d fall in. She didn’t know that this was their way of making sure Poppy Pomfrey got a bath now and then since she didn’t have access to a shower.

“Poppy?! Yeh in thar?!” boomed a deep voice. The lean-top was near collapse.

“Hagrid? Hagrid?! Is that you?!”

“Yeh. Olympe an’ me just got back. Yeh okay in thar?”

Such an innocent question she knew. Deep down, she knew he was asking because that was the way he was. But the floodgates were near to opening with her tears. “No,” she answered. “Not really. Can you let me use the bathroom in the groundskeeper hut?”

“Shore. Anytime. Why didn’t yuh use it before now?”

“Magically locked,” she whispered as she moved towards the hut and its glorious bathroom and its heavenly hot water fed shower!

“Right, right,” he nodded, not wanting to tell her the magical key was under the non-magical doormat.

**-o0o-**

Poppy was looking much better. The color was restored to her skin. Her hair did not have leaves, twigs, pine needles, or dirt in it, and she smelled more human. She sat with Hagrid going over the lesson plan she had come up with while they ate at the small table in the hut. Hagrid would resume classes on Monday after watching how she interacted with the children that day.

The day progressed, the classes came and went. No new accidents befell any of the children who had long since become wary of the ‘Witch-Who-Would-Let-You-Nearly-Die-For-Your-Own-Good’. Classes ended, evening meals concluded and the two of them returned to the hut to discuss matters. The hut was similar to Hagrid’s hut at Hogwarts. There were only three rooms in the hut: bedroom, washroom, and a larger room that served as a living space / kitchen / eating area. Hagrid would stay in the bedroom as his back was all out of shape due to having slept on rocks for the past few months. Poppy could pull up a rug and sleep by the fireplace with Fang. In the morning, Hagrid would begin building an attached shed to the hut where Poppy would stay. She was not happy about having to live in a shed of all things, but it could be worse, she thought.

Close to 10pm local, Hagrid returned from a quickie, er…, a meeting with Olympe, and asked Poppy one of the most critical questions he would ever ask her while in France. He asked her how he would go about ordering drinks at a pub in French.

This resulted in a long conversation about how to speak French, about how to order in French, and all of which was absolutely irrelevant since Hagrid wasn’t really thinking of how he would order drinks in French, but instead how she would order drinks in French for him. She understood this soon enough as they entered a locals place just a few hundred kilometers from the school where he had flown them in his flying motorcycle.

**-o0o-**

Poppy had been in France for two months. She had not learned very much French however, other than a few swear words that the kids had used in her presence, which ironically, had been used about her presence and more often than not, about her smell. She had managed to order Hagrid a few large drinks that he paid for and the two of them sat down. Hagrid downed one glass and then the other. He then got up to go back to the bar for another refill.

The process continued for an hour or so. Hagrid would drink, and the more he drank, the easier it was to talk to him, and he to anyone else. Oh, he still didn’t understand French, but then again, he wasn’t speaking intelligibly any longer. Grunts, snorts, blinking, a couple belches – it was all part of the guy speaking-while-intoxicated code. Poppy had never understood it. Not even when Robert had gotten loose that one time and managed to drink some of her potions she had brewed while at Hogwarts. She said so to Hagrid whose head was on the table and he was snoring away.

She failed to notice four burly biker members, who were wearing their colors, raise eyebrows to one another. They nodded over to her. They spoke softly. Minutes later, a bar fight broke out, tables were upturned, yelling, shouting, a bag thrown over Poppy’s head and she in turn was thrown over someone’s shoulder. The roar of a motorcycle. Then another roar. And another. What was going on? What was happening?

**-o0o-**

The bag was taken off Poppy’s head. She immediately noticed she was in a dim room with many burly figures inside, both men and women. They were all speaking French to her.

“Do you mind if we speak in English?” she pointed out. She was tired. Soar. A little light-headed from the excitement, but more than anything, she was in no mood for tomfoolery!

The leader, well, the most intimidating figure of the 20 or so people in that room pointed to another leather-clad man. He was slightly older than the others and nodded. “I am Jacque De Vire,” he said with a medium accent as he sat down across from her. “He is Claude Le Meiux,” he pointed at the more intimidating hooligan. “We are all members of the Coffin Cheaters.”

“Preposterous!” Poppy stated.

“And why is that? Is it you thought yourself too good to be kidnapped by a biker gang? That biker gangs no longer kidnap people? Is that it?”

“Of course not, silly man! It is because the Coffin Cheaters are a biker club in Australia, not France! Honestly!” she harrumphed.

A woman had been translating for the rest of the gang and the leader snapped something at Jacque. “Oui,” he replied to Claude. Then, to Poppy, “We are the French auxiliary of the Australia chapter.”

“Hrmph. Very well. But I will be checking up on that, I will let you know. Now what do you want?”

To the point then. Good. It made negotiations that much easier. “Member of our club overheard your conversation with the large man you were with tonight. They heard you were a healer for one thing.”

“And I take it you all need me to heal your wounds from various altercations with football hooligans who may or may not be traveling around in a stolen double-decker bus?”

“Ah, that would be good, but not the real reason you were brought here.”

“Yes? Then why else am I here?”

“Ze, I mean, the men heard you say you were both a healer and you could make homemade brewskies.”

She processed what he said for a few seconds. “You started a fight and kidnapped me because someone overheard a conversation and took it to mean I was both a healer as well as someone who could brew beer on the side?”

“Oui!” Jacque agreed, glad that she understood.

“Allow me to clear up some misconceptions, Jacque. I am a nurse. I can do healing, that is true. But I never said I made homemade brewskies in my conversations tonight. What I said was that I could brew things in my home. And what that means is I could make healing concoctions! Not beer, you imbecilic morons!”

“You don’t make beer in your part time?” Jacque clarified.

“No!”

“Not even a little?”

“No!”

“I guess it was too good to be true. I will tell Claude that we need to keep looking for someone that can heal our wounds, make brewskies, and heal our little puppy dogs.”

“Well, that I can do I guess,” Poppy said without realizing it. Lack of sleep for months was finally catching up to her.

A vote was taken and the Coffin Cheaters decided to keep Poppy.

As Poppy poured over texts on how to create beer the next morning, one thought went through her head over and over. It was: ‘What did I ever do to deserve this?’

**-o0o-**

Hagrid woke up hours later, rubbed his head as he yawned to get the sleepies out of his eyes. He scratched himself, blinked a few more times, looked around for Poppy, and then left. The roar of the motorcycle was heard by a few patrons, but none paid any real attention.

Poppy did not return that weekend. When asked where she was, all Hagrid could think of saying was, “She met a bloke who swept her off her feet.”

Technically, that was true. She had met a bloke, although not by her choice. And he had swept her off her feet: again, not by her choice.

However, staying with the French auxiliary of the Coffin Cheaters biker club was her decision after they offered to release her once she taught them the secret of making bathtub beer. She had learned to make brewskies quickly. And they were a hit with the club. It was probably due to the whisky she added to it. She could also heal them when they got into fights. And once she colored her white hair back to its original black color, she started to get some action.

The tramp stamp of a dragon riding a motorcycle she got the following summer solstice showed the men how much she enjoyed being part of a gang. One thing was for sure, she knew, it sure as shit beat living in a shack.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
Originally when drafting this chapter, I hadn’t thought to include anything on Poppy. Then a reviewing mentioned the following: “Whilst you’re shafting the so called adult professionals who have deliberately failed to do their jobs, whatever will become of Poppy Pomfrey! She should have noted the all too clear signs of abuse and malnutrition Harry displayed and fine something the first time the lad was in her alleged care.” This got me to thinking. That reviewer was right. Poppy should have noticed. Should have done something. Why hadn’t she? I began to wander down that thought path and then it hit me. She wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t really been trained in that job! And therein you have her inclusion in this chapter.

This chapter was originally going to have two additional shaftings in it, but Poppy’s story became so long, I had to cut those out and as such, they will be in the next chapter. Half of the next chapter is done, and the second part is already well underway.

Nigel will return in a later chapter. Never fear. Who the hell is Nigel you ask? Stay tuned!

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	12. Shafting Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape's fate is revealed

**Author’s Note:**  
It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

“Howdy, folks! Time to wake up!” chimed the cheerful sounding fake voice of the wind-up alarm clock next to Potion Master Severus Snape’s head.

Groan. He cracked his right eye and looked at the clock. Its illuminated numbers indicated it was 5:02 am. Just great, he thought. Time to start the next useless day in his otherwise useless life.

He rose, his feet touching the cold cement of the apartment he was in. He turned on the desk light and resisted smashing the alarm clock with either a backhand to the wall, a slamming of it on the floor, or anything else. He had already done that multiple times when he first arrived in his new digs. The clock was indestructible. And if he irritated it, the voice it used to wake him would change pitch and grate more on his nerves.

Severus Snape, or Snape as he was known to his friends, colleagues, benefactors, co-workers, students, masters… basically, everyone in the world except one person, and she was dead. Snape walked to the bathroom, took care of business, stripped, and shaved with a plastic razor that would do nothing more than cut beard stubble (he had tested it out on other parts of his body). Finished, he got in the shower for his usual morning routine: cleaning the body while reflecting on his soul.

The water, at first ice cold, then blazing hot. He thought of all that he had had.

He had a good friend in Lily. He wasted it.

He had a good working relationship with his fellow teachers. He wasted it.

He had a good rapport with Lucius, for what that was worth. He wasted it.

He had the opportunity to be a good influence with Draco. He wasted it.

“Hurry the fuck up in the shower!” yelled an irate Fenrir Grayback.

It took a few seconds to return to his reflection, especially since the soap wasn’t coarse enough.

He had a good rapport with his students. He wasted it and their future by not being fair.

He had a good rapport with Narcissa to the point maybe he could have better influenced her decisions. He wasted it.

“Snape! Get out or I’ll rip your eyes out!”

“Shut it, you bitch!” But Snape exited the shower and left the bathroom, dripping water everywhere. He could only hope that Greyback would slip on the tile, crack his head on the floor and die.

“Thanks for saving me some fucking hot water, you fucker!” Greyback snarled, his beard especially twitching as he eyed the potions master for some glorious violence.

Snape dried himself with a towel (no wand to do that these days), and then dressed for work. He would eat in the lab, not bothering to spend any more time than he had to near Greyback.

**-o0o-**

Snape and Greyback shared a 2-bedroom apartment in the basement of Tri-S Potions Corporation. Like all the other Death Eaters and their families, he had been shackled like a common animal and taken to a pen. There, he was interrogated and branded. Well, not so much branded as made to wear an awful shirt for a little while.

He had been expecting to have been put down. That is what he would have done had been the person who had acquired all the Death Eaters as chattel. But no. He was going to be spared. He was going to have to work for the rest of his life he was told. He expected no less than that as well. Was he going to shovel shit? Or be dragon bait? No. If only he were so lucky.

Instead, he had been told he was to work in a potions lab. And specifically, he was going to work on a werewolf cure. Oh sure, there were a lot of options out in the world for werewolves, but Potter wanted Lupin to be cured. He could understand it. And so, he agreed. What a fool he had been. He should have just ended his life there.

By mid-September he was in the zone. Potions boiling around him. Optional potion A on the left, Optional potion B on the right. Try this, then try that. No problem. Setbacks. No problem. Meditate on what wolfsbane was. No problem. After two months, he was still nowhere near having a solution. He admitted that to his Potions manager. He in turn reported it to his director and so on up the chain until it obviously got to Potter.

A new directive was then made. He was to work on a better way to control werewolves. Again, he dove into the project. He would work 12 to 16 hours a day on it. He enjoyed every part of it. Until December 7th. That was the night of a full moon. The next day he heard that a werewolf had mauled a young woman and infected her. She had no chance of leading a normal life until a cure was made.

She was also the daughter of Claire Woolford, the Tri-S Potions Corporation managing director. Once he absorbed the information, Claire looked him in the eye and gave him new orders. He was to meet with a magical veterinarian that she managed to get on loan from France. They would come up with a solution within days to ensure her daughter did not have to suffer being a werewolf.

Nearing lunchtime on December 8th, Snape was summoned to meet the magical vet. He went outside the building to the parking lot. After a few minutes of waiting (impatiently one might add), he heard a loud sound. Varoom. The sound got louder. Varoom-varoom! What was that veterinarian doing? Riding a dragon to meet him? Moments later he saw a convoy of motorcycle-riding hooligans riding their loud, smelly motorcycles into the corporation’s parking lot.

The lead cycle stopped near Snape and the other Tri-S executives. The rest of the cycles stopped behind the first bike. The second bike held two people, with the rider of that bike getting off by the simple movement of sliding her blue-jeans covered leg off and then sliding her other leg over the seat, barely getting her foot caught on the behind of the person she had been sitting behind. “Ooof,” she ooofed.

What sort of foolishness was this, Snape thought. The woman, who was wearing mirrored shade, a kerchief over her black hair, and sporting a black leather jacket over her t-shirt, stopped in front of Snape. “Hello, Severus,” she said.

He looked at her again. Blinked. Then, “Poppy?!”

“In the flesh, buddy. Hey, anyone got some beers for my crew?” They all yelled in appreciation of her thinking of them.

Drinks obtained and distributed, Poppy’s convoy rode off, saying they would wait for her down at the local biker bar until she called for them. Poppy met with the officials, got a better idea of what they were up against, and went with Snape to his lab.

Snape didn’t even want to know how a children’s nurse had become a leading veterinarian expert. It was probably related to Potter, no doubt. But she did provide many insights as to what they were combating. She talked about magical creatures for the next several days and what nearly all had one thing in common: when an alpha male was mated with an alpha female then the alpha pair was in charge. However, once the alpha male was removed from that equation, then the alpha female was no longer in charge and the rest of the beasts enjoyed a short amount of time in which to partake in, of all things, playful activities.

Poppy explained it as a power vacuum. That for magical creatures, since no one was in charge, then to simply enjoy the free time until the next alpha showed up. And in the absence of an alpha-male, then the alpha-female was up for grabs by all the other males. It was a rough time for the alpha-female, but the other females were left alone and for some reason took to sunning themselves, eating what they wanted, and enjoyed being around the rest of the girls as it were. And in two separate occasions, the females managed to order take-out while the males were all chasing the alpha-female. And even then, the other males seemed to enjoy the chase. It was only the alpha-female that seemed to have the worst of it.

This information also got to Director Woolford who had additional questions for Snape. She predicated her questions with a scenario that male and female werewolves would be in an enclosed environment.

Question 1: If an alpha-male werewolf was present during a full-moon change, and then immediately removed prior to the change completing, how quickly would it take the other males to search for the alpha-female? Answer: All research indicated almost immediately.

Question 2: If the alpha-male werewolf were removed prior to the chance completing, would the remaining non-alpha werewolf females enjoy the rest of their time during that night as long as an existing alpha-female was there? Answer: Based on all research over previous months, yes, they would.

Question 3: If an alpha-male werewolf was present during a full-moon change, and he were removed during that change, and there was no alpha-female present, what would happen? Answer: Without an alpha-female present during the change, the remaining males would just pounce on the other female werewolves.

Question 4: If an alpha-male werewolf and alpha-female were not present during a full-moon change at all, what would happen to the other werewolves? Answer: Without an alpha-male or alpha-female present, the werewolves would begin fighting among themselves until a victor emerged. This would happen for both males and females. There is something that triggers the werewolf hierarchy during the change when multiple werewolves are in the same space.

December 10th had new mandates from Claire Woolford. It was hideous in its design, but like the screwed individual he was, he proceeded with creating the potions. Creating them was far easier than he had originally feared. They were ready 10 days before January 5th, the date of the next full moon.

He met with Director Woolford and informed her of what each potion would do. Potion #1 would change a male werewolf’s scent and aura to that of a female werewolf. Potion #2 would delay a werewolf’s normal healing properties for at least 12 hours. And Potion #3 would heal all damage to a werewolf caused by a werewolf, including their own self-induced injuries during their transformations.

The difficulty, Snape explained, was getting Potion #1 into the male werewolf without being bitten. It needed to be ingested by a werewolf during their transformation. It would not last long once exposed to air. Seconds at best. Too much and it was no good. Not enough and it was no good.

This is when Snape found out how ruthless Director Woolford actually was. She had anticipated that issue while reading his daily briefs, and had outsourced the delivery method to another potions master, Carlos Ezquerra (no relation). He had run into the same delivery time that Snape did. If someone were near the male werewolf during a change, then it was high-risk they might become infected, or die in the attempt to get the potion into the male’s mouth prior to the transformation completing.

Ironically, it was Poppy that had given Carlos a solution to this as well as another un-said issue. During the transformation, a werewolf was experiencing both pleasure and pain. The pain won out as the transformation was very painful. But if Potion #1 were ingested by the werewolf 15-20 minutes before transformation started, then it would make that transformation very pleasurable instead of doing a scent and aura swap. This would be beneficial for all werewolves transforming, including Director Woolford’s daughter.

However, once they became a werewolf, they were then back into the typical werewolf mindset and the same problems persisted. Carlos also figured out that if the potion were put into an atomizer and sprayed into a mouth of a person prior to transformation, then that person became sexually desirable to others, both male and female. But more importantly, he figured out that if a non-infected person were to spritz a spray of potion in their mouth, and immediately close their mouth until they were ready to use it, then that potion would remain active and transferrable to an infected werewolf. Further, Carlos was pretty certain… well, almost certain (80%... 70% at the outside…maybe) that the attraction pheromone in Potion #1 would keep the person with the spritzed mouth safe from any werewolf until the potion wore off.

Snape realized what Director Woolford was saying immediately. She intended for someone to put the potion in his or her mouth and then French-kiss a werewolf during transformation. Admittedly the risk of infection was amazingly low at that point, but still it was there. He hoped that the fool crazy enough to orally potion the alpha-male, of which he only knew of one alpha-male in captivity: Greyback.

He knew what was coming a few minutes before moonrise on Friday, 5-January, 1996. He was in a large containment room, warded to keep werewolves inside. There were ten individuals for this experiment. All volunteers, except one. He had no say in it. The nine werewolves to get the pleasure-potion for the transformation were broken out as six males and three females, one of which was Director Woolford’s daughter. The 10th and final werewolf was Greyback who was strapped to a bed with said restraints to automatically release once his transformation was underway.

Snape looked around the observation room. There were several others present, including Director Woolford and Potions Master Carlos Ezquerra. He moved to stand near the other potions master.

“That was quite a potion’s find, Mr. Ezquerra,” Snape said. “To find that the potion retains its potency and transference capabilities while inside another’s mouth. Well done.”

“Thank you,” Carlos replied with a nod. “Although there was a slight problem with the formula. You see, it could become addictive to the wrong sort.”

“Is there a counter agent for the addictiveness?”

“Not without losing its effectiveness.”

“Then the person to kiss the alpha must be change out regularly,” Snape stated with conviction.

“Perhaps,” Director Woolford moved to include herself in the conversation. “But the addictiveness is only noticeable if a person is weak-willed and has no occulmancy skills. If that person has those, then there will be no addictiveness.”

“Where did you find the person to meet this criteria?” Snape asked with a massive feeling of dread.

“I am looking at him right now,” Directory Woolford stated coldly.

“I won’t,” Snape instantly declared.

“You will.”

“I want to speak with my caseworker.”

“Of course. Edward?” she motioned behind Snape.

Another man approached that he hadn’t met before, but it became clear very quick that he was one of the caseworkers assigned to the Death Eaters.

“Snape,” Ed said. “I’m going to save us some time because we don’t have it to waste. Here’s your situation: you are a mass-murderer. That is how you got your little tattoo. You live at Mr. Potter’s behest. You will do as Director Woolford asks or you will become infected by a werewolf tonight. Then, next month, you will be the alpha, taking Greyback’s place. Do you want to know what is going to happen to him?”

“He is going to be dosed with Potion #1. I created it. It will make the others think he is the alpha-female.”

“Almost correct. With his bits dangling, this may confuse the other werewolf males. Greyback will now be castrated once the transformation is complete. Then he will be released to the other males. And once the transformation starts to revert in the morning, he will be healed to where he is again the alpha-male. You do want him to be the alpha-male for the month, right? To ensure the other males respond during the next full moon when the alpha-male suddenly is gone, leaving only the alpha-female?”

“You plan to castrate him every month? And heal him the next morning?”

“You catch on quick, Snape. Now the question I want an answer to is: do you want to take his place?”

“Hell no,” Snape’s eyes opened at the horrible option.

“Then are you gonna French-kiss that alpha-male when he is in mid-transformation or not? Gimme an answer as we only have a few minutes to decide.” Edward’s eyes narrowed and Snape knew he would keep his threat to make him the next alpha if he didn’t do what needed to be done. He nodded in acceptance of his fate.

**-o0o-**

“Ugh!” Snape sneered to himself. “He tasted like cigarettes and pork rinds.” Snape stumbled backwards, out of the containment area. Once there, he consumed a liter of mouthwash. Rinse and spit, rinse and spit. Over and over. He couldn’t get that taste out of his mouth.

**-o0o-**

“Explosivo-castrado!” intoned Director Woolford to Greyback’s nether regions.

“Aaaarroooooooooo-whine-whine!” the neutered alpha-male, now reeking of alpha-female pheromones groaned in pain. The wizard bodyguard by the new ‘alpha-her’ shot a partial-skin repair spell at Greyback to stop the man-region bleeding, and followed it up with a decent spray of potion #2 again to his bleeding region. The two of them left while the other werewolves were starting to wake up from their pleasure-induced transformation.

**-o0o-**

Greyback, the alpha-bitch now, ran around the room to keep the other playful males away. He never knew that Director Woolford was not concerned about him, but instead was watching her daughter relax near a pool of water (really, a kid’s pool filled with water the werewolf could lay in), grab a burger from a plate of burgers near the pool, and enjoy listening to Ol’ Blue Eyes sing song after song. Her daughter enjoyed a restful night with the other two female non-alpha werewolves. All three of them ignored the excited yips of the other boys chasing that awful alpha-bitch who did nothing but snarl back.

**-o0o-**

“Snape?”

“What do you want, Greyback?”

“Why am I on this bed?”

“Your manhood is repairing itself as we speak. You will be able to get up in another couple days.”

“I’m going to kill you for trying to kiss me while I was transforming, you bastard,” he tried to snarl. It was more of a weak barb than a true snarl.

“Not if you want me to keep brewing potions to regenerate your wedding tackle you won’t,” Snape shot back. He then went on to explain what had happened last night. And what was going to happen every full moon going forward.

Greyback was unsure if to rage or to cry. His inner-wolf was whining in his head and his spirit.

**-o0o-**

“So your transformation didn’t hurt? Really?” Claire asked her daughter.

“No pain at all. I feel great! Like I bench press Jonathan in Sales. He’s a cutie.”

“Okay, that’s good to know. But just so you are aware: Jonathan quit. Last night. Something about wanting to spend time with his wife and their 10 kids.”

“Ten kids, mom? Really? He’s only 22 years old.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Why don’t you tell me more of what you experienced during your transformation and your night’s activities?”

“You know, for some reason, I really want to hear more Frank Sinatra. Which is weird since he is your favorite singer, not mine.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Okay,” Claire hedged, glad that she was speaking normally with her daughter while having breakfast at a table instead of sitting by her bedside while she recovered from a massively painful transformation like most werewolves go through.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
This was a much more fun chapter to write than I thought it would be. I thought in every book that Snape got away with too much, even with Dumbledore’s casual look-the-other-way attitude. He should have gotten shafted six ways to Sunday if I’d had my way with that character. I thought: what would be the appropriate way to shaft him? Then it came to me: use a werewolf. Of course, I meant to shaft Greyback as well, so this just added to the fun.

Coming up with the appropriate incentive for the research was easy as Greyback had somewhere boasted that he liked to convert kids to being werewolves somewhere in some story I read at some time in the past. He found some sort of sick pleasure in it. He needed a way to be shafted a lot as well. This then led to the formation of the alternative cure for those werewolves having to change on the full moon. They could get some decent rest I thought. But Greyback still needed some shafting.

At the end, coming up with the idea of one shafting the other was not that far-fetched and was relatively easy to plan, especially since Snape hated werewolves. Please keep that in mind as Snape is not kissing Greyback the man, he is instead French-kissing Greyback the werewolf, his worst nightmare.

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	13. Shafting the ICW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first ICW shafting

**Author’s Note:**  
Mostly, this is Lady Foxfire’s final chapter to the original story. There are some updates to the original content, and some new scenes added, but the overall intent and flow is still the same. Never fear, however, as I have more chapters after this. At least 6 more.

It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

Fredrich Grueber had heard what happened in England like all the rest of the International Confederation of Wizards (ICW) members. He had read the newspaper articles and monitored what happened as a result. All because of one boy’s desire for revenge. Still, Fredrich needed to make sure of his facts.

Finding the adults that Mr. Potter kidnapped and imprisoned had proven to be impossible as their whereabouts were now protected by the Goblins for some reason. The ICW was investigating this stall tactic by the Goblins and were sure it was enforced by a treaty somewhere, but that took lower priority than finding out what happened with Mr. Potter. And what happened to the money.

Since the adults were not available, Fredrich went after the children he could find. He had already contacted a Mr. Blaise Zabini, but having another source validate the testimony was critical. It took a few months, but they were finally able to locate one Draco Malfoy in Ireland. Fredrich entered the orphanage where young Mr. Malfoy was located, talked to the staff, and soon enough he and Mr. Malfoy were talking on a bench outside the facility.

“It’s all Potter’s fault,” Draco announced as soon as they sat.

“That’s what I have heard,” Fredrich replied, pulling out a clipboard. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Potter kidnapped me, took all my money, took my parents away, and locked me up in this hellhole. Look at me! I’m wearing rags! I mean, look at my shirt! What does U2 mean anyway?!”

“How did Mr. Potter take these away from you?”

“He confounded the Goblins or something. If I still had my powers, I would track him down and make him pay. My parents were law-abiding people. They were rich. That’s why Potter targeted us. It was all a desire for him to get money. You need to find him and get my money back.”

“And your parents?”

“Yeah, get them back too.”

**-o0o-**

Fredrich met with several other former Hogwarts students and then talked with what remaining British Ministry personnel he could find over a 2-month period. This included a couple department heads and several Wizengamot members. It was pretty much the same result in that:

1\. It was all Harry Potter’s fault.

2\. Harry Potter stole titles he was not entitled to.

3\. Harry Potter kidnapped people he had no right to.

4\. Harry Potter stole all the money from the people he kidnapped.

5\. Harry Potter stole all the lands and homes from the people he kidnapped.

6\. Harry Potter destroyed the economy and needed to be stopped. The money needed to come back to England.

7\. Why did they think Harry Potter did it? Because he is crazy and an attention-seeker, just like the paper said he was.

8\. Oh, and the kidnapped people needed to be returned.

The end result for Fredrich was that the ICW needed to get this resolved, and quick. Finances were at stake.

**-o0o-**

America. Land of the free, home of the brave. The first nation… well they were colonies at that time. Still, they were brave enough (or more likely stupid enough) to tell the British government to fuck off and actually get away with it.

Of course, it was the perfect place for Harry Potter to disappear in since he basically did the same thing to the British Wizarding government. The symbolism was not lost to Harry as he sat at a small outdoor patio table. He liked the openness around him these days.

So, it was no surprise that when a representative of the ICW finally found Harry, he was enjoying a fish sandwich while watching people pass him by.

“Mr. Potter?” the representative said with a slight German accent as he sat down across the table.

“Maybe,” Harry replied before taking another bite of his sandwich, looking around for any other surprises.

“Fredrich Grueber, Representative of the International Confederation of Wizards,” the wizard said in a slightly snotty tone of voice, not bothering to extend his hand.

Harry’s expression didn’t change as he swallowed his food and reached for his drink. “Really. That must be great for you.”

“Yes… well…” Grueber stammered for a moment over the fact that Potter was less than impressed by his title. Usually, the little people were always impressed with his title. To business then. “I’m here to speak to you about your… chattel and the funds you appropriated from them.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders as he took another bite of his sandwich, taking a better look at the young ladies window shopping across the street.

“The ICW on behalf of the British Wizard government is asking you to free your… chattel and return the funds you removed from their accounts,” Grueber stated in a firm tone of voice as he looked down his nose at Harry.

Harry pondered the request. He noticed the lack of attention his guest was getting from the rest of the staff and patrons of the sidewalk café he frequented. He looked at Grueber for a moment while chewing the tasty sandwich. Then he turned his attention back to the waitress across the way. Harry swallowed his mouthful of food, then took a slow drink of water to clear his mouth. “No,” he replied.

Grueber blinked a couple of times in surprise. “Mr. Potter I don’t think you understand the exact nature of this request,” he said in a harder, threatening tone, much as he used to intimidate heads of state, let alone a child. “The ICW would like you to free the witches and wizards you have in your possession and return the funds you stole from them.”

Harry put down his sandwich and gave the ICW representative his full attention. “You seem to be laboring under some misinformation about what exactly the ICW is and what it is allowed to do, Mr. Grueber.”

“And what is that, Mr. Potter,” Grueber sneered.

“You’re of the belief that the ICW has the power to tell me what I can and cannot do,” Harry replied as if he was explaining something to a child. Since he was explaining something to a wizard, he decided to use small words. “You see the International Confederation of Wizards is a collection of wizard governments who came together in order to unite the nations represented by wizards and witches across the globe, much like the non-magical United Nations. And like the UN, the ICW can sanction one of its members if a nation does something illegal or performs an activity that threatens the other member nations. But the ICW cannot tell an individual what they can and cannot do especially if what the individual is doing is legal.”

“But slavery is not legal in the British Isles,” Grueber countered.

“Actually, it is, under the right circumstance,” Harry stated with a grin. “Circumstances I took full advantage of.”

“And the spouses and children of those families you enslaved?” Grueber said. “What about them?”

“Let’s not forget all those extended family members, vassals, and other indentured family members, Mr. Grueber. And all legal per British law,” Harry replied.

“That is until the British government changes the law and makes it retroactive,” Grueber replied.

Harry chuckled. “Ah, but that won’t happen for a very long time, not until my Heir has taken his or her spot as the head of the Potter line… in Britain at least.”

Grueber’s brow furrow as he tried to figure out what Harry meant. “Explain,” he demanded.

“Oh, you mean they didn’t tell you?” Harry smirked, loving where this was going.

“Tell me what?” Grueber demanded, not liking the sinking pit in his stomach at all.

“To change any existing laws, the Wizengamot needs a majority vote which is 75% of all votes cast for active seats within the Wizengamot. The problem for them, Mr. Grueber, is that I own 34% of the seats in the Wizengamot.”

“That does not sound insurmountable,” Mr. Grueber started, his mind racing to a solution.

“You still don’t understand the issue fully, Freddie. You see, I control much more than just 17 seats in the Wizengamot,” Harry began. “Because the government of Wizarding Britain snapped my wand, I am essentially considered a squib by them. And due to current Wizengamot laws stating that the head of a family must be a recognized Wizard or Witch in order to sit in that chamber, I cannot vote those seats.”

“Appoint one or more proxies then,” Grueber suggested, that sinking feeling still there.

“Oh, so close to a good suggestion, but alas,” Harry mocked a pained look, “I’m not allowed to appoint a proxy. Doing so would require recognition that I am magical, which won’t happen since my wand was snapped and I am considered a squib, i.e., non-magical.”

“Yes, well, maybe we could work around that if we took your age into consideration. As young as you are, you could have your magical guardian appoint one for you,” Grueber ordered.

“Unfortunately, you are zero-for-two, Mr. Grueber. I don’t have a magical guardian for two reasons. One: by trying me as an adult in that farce of a trial but still legal nonetheless by their standards, the Wizengamot effectively made me an adult in magical law that very day. Therefore, I am no longer eligible for a magical guardian. And two, even if the previous argument could be thrown aside, considering that I had my wand snapped, we go back to the Wizengamot’s belief that I am no longer considered magical by their laws. If I am no longer considered magical, then I therefore have no need for a magical guardian. This means those seats will remain unoccupied until my heir has taken his or her rightful place as head of the Potter line, and that’s if they ever decide they want to go back to England.”

Harry picked up his sandwich once again as Grueber mentally reviewed what Harry just said. Harry was finishing his sandwich when Grueber blurted out, “But that means they can’t convene!”

“Yep,” Harry said with a satisfied smirk. “That’s the true control over the Wizengamot that I have. They can’t make any laws, agree to any treaty or raise any taxes. All they can do is sit and judge those brought to court.”

“But… but… they can’t do anything,” Grueber sputtered.

“And the British people will probably thank me since this would be the first time in history that a government actually worked correctly… of course, that’s ignoring the part in which I destroyed their economy,” Harry said thoughtfully. “But, you know, they only have themselves to blame for that. After all, they elected Fudge and his pack of fools into office.”

Grueber opened his mouth to say something only to close it once again. “And what about the funds? Would you consent to having them transferred back to your account in the British branch of Gringotts?”

“Why?” Harry asked simply.

“To restart the British economy,” Grueber answered. “When you removed the funds, the British economy collapsed.”

Harry snorted, “Tough shit for them. But to answer your question, even if I did, it wouldn’t help their economy any,” Harry replied. “After all, you must spend money to get an economy moving and since I’m in America, I won’t be spending any money in Britain. Besides I couldn’t do it anyways even if I wanted to since I don’t have a knut to my name.”

“You’re broke!” Grueber exclaimed in shock.

“Nope,” Harry answered with a smile that would make the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland green with envy. “Tell me, do you know what the conversion rate is between the British pound and wizarding money is?”

“Not for the British pound but the conversion rate for the German Deutschmark is around 2 Sickles,” Grueber told him.

Harry nodded his head. “And do you know what the conversion from wizard money back to muggle money is?”

Grueber looked at Harry in confusion. “From you question I would say it’s not the same as it is from muggle to Galleons.”

Harry nodded his head. “To go from British currency to Galleons, 1 pound is worth 3 sickles and 11 knuts. But to go the other way… 2 sickles are worth 1 pound.”

A high pitch squeak came from Grueber. Clearing his throat, he said, “But why such a difference?”

“Profit. It’s all about profit,” Harry answered before finishing off his drink.

“But why exchange all your money? You’ll probably lose more than what you made when you change it back,” Grueber asked.

“Why would I exchange it back?” Harry asked innocently.

“Well… to buy things,” Grueber replied as if it were as clear as day.

Harry looked at Grueber with a thoughtful expression on his face before saying, “Look around Mr. Grueber, do you notice what is all around us?”

Grueber looked at Harry for a moment before complying with the request. “Shops, muggles walking, muggle vehicles and in the distance, I can see a bit of water and maybe a ship or two.”

Harry smiled and nodded his head. “Normal everyday people with normal everyday jobs out buying normal everyday things.”

Grueber blinked a couple of times in surprise. “You plan to go muggle; to turn you back on magic!”

Harry snorted. “Of course not. I like magic. I just plan to turn my back on the wizarding community. It’s not as if that lot ever did anything good for anyone but themselves.”

“But you can’t use magic outside of a school until you pass your O.W.L.s, which you can’t do since you are no longer enrolled in a school. And you could never get a job without a good score on your N.E.W.T.s,” Grueber pointed out.

Harry smirked as he pointed out the flaw in that logic as well. “First, there are no laws against me hiring tutors so I can pass my O.W.L.s. And second, why the hell would I want a job in the wizard community? From what I see the job market is limited to being a government employee, government flunky, government stooge, own a shop, or working in a shop,” Harry said with a snort.

“I can assure you, Mr. Potter, that there is more to the wizard community than the few forms of employment that you mention,” Grueber said in the same snotty tone of voice he introduced himself to Harry earlier.

“Ah yes, there’s teacher, dragon handler or curse breaker but to be honest, none of them interest me,” Harry replied. “Besides, there is one field of employment that the wizard world will never have but that the muggle world does.”

“And what is that?” Grueber growled at the idea that muggle could do something that the wizards could never do.

Harry pointed up.

Grueber looked up in confusion “Flying?” he guessed. “I’m sure you know that wizards know how to fly and that some actually make a career out of it.”

“Space,” Harry said simply.

Grueber looked at Harry in confusion. “Space?”

“Do you know how many people have walked on the moon, Mr. Grueber?” Harry asked.

Grueber shook his head. “None. No wizard could apparate such a distance nor would they know what they would find if they were able to.”

“The answer is 12, dipshit. The first two being the Americans Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin on July 20, 1969,” Harry stated. “I want to go into space. Walk on the surface of the moon. Be the first person to walk on Mars. If I stay in the wizard community and be a good little wizard following all the stupid inane rules and laws, I could never do any of that.”

Grueber looked at Harry with a sad expression on his face. “You’re insane.”

Harry snorted. “This from the representative of the people who think that stepping into a fire is a great way to transport themselves to other places or stick their heads into the same fire to talk to someone. Of course, if you want to send someone a letter or a package you need to find an owl or some other type of bird to do that. I’m sorry but I’m pretty sure that the wizard world has cornered the market on being insane.”

“Then I can assume that there is no chance of you freeing your chattels or returning the funds,” Grueber said.

“None what so ever,” Harry answered. “After all by that simple act, I defeat Voldemort. He has no army and no money; all the wizard world has to do is find him.”

Grueber rose to his feet. “I’ll take your reply back to International Confederation of Wizards but I can assure you that this won’t be the last you’ll hear from us.”

Harry chuckled. “Why would I assume any differently? After all, as Dumbledore and the Wizengamot taught me, a wizard is always right even when he’s wrong. I’m sure I’ll see you or your replacement sometime soon.”

And with that Grueber walked into the human traffic without a backward glance and disappeared from sight.

Harry sat at the table for about five minutes, watching as humanity passed him by. “What do you think they will do now?” he asked to a person who walked up next to him.

“Nothing for the time being,” a short ugly old man who looked a lot like a Goblin said as he sat down across from Harry, “but eventually they will try something. It is their way and they cannot understand why someone would willingly give up their way for a different one.”

Harry made some agreeing noises. “I wonder how many times it will take before they get the point.”

“It depends on if you will allow us to implement the plan we suggested,” the old man/Goblin said.

“Not yet. Wait until they’ve pissed me off,” Harry said with a smirk. “Beside we don’t want to show our hand yet; we can only do it so many times before we run out of laws and treaties that we can manipulate.”

“That would be 2,163 treaties to be exact,” the old man/Goblin replied with a toothy grin.

“Got to love how the Wizengamot managed to con the ICW into doing their dirty work. I wonder how they managed that.”

“Old boy network,” the old man/Goblin replied simply.

“More like old fart network,” Harry summed up.

“True.”

Harry looked over at the old man/Goblin with an impressed look on his face. “You know, I have to hand it to the wizard community when it comes to truth and justice. They really know how to screw someone or allow someone like me to screw them. Wonder who will be the ones to piss me off.”

Harry and the old man/Goblin looked at each other and simultaneously said, “The French.”

“Wonder who they’ll send since none of them know how to take ‘No’ or ‘Not Interested’ for an answer,” Harry commented.

“So I hear,” the man/Goblin said. “I would not know personally. Not like your godfather if what I have heard is any indicator.”

“Yeah, the old mutt seems to be in heat all the time. Maybe I’ll talk to him and Moony to get some ideas on how to counter the next ICW visit.”

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
This was a fun chapter to add to. Especially since the old boy network is real. Bloody bastards.

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	14. Shafting Minerva, and Pettigrew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pettigrew gets shafted again

**Author’s Note:**  
It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

Peter watched his master sleep, keeping a watchful eye out for him. It was, Peter knew, the best way to stay alive.

The last month had been hard for poor, poor, Peter. He had been turned into a statue (more than once), Crucio’d (more than once), and reduced to eating trash (again, more than once). It had all started when those blasted Goblins raided the Malfoy estate and kidnapped Lucy and Toots. It was only through his quick thinking that he was fortunate to get himself and his master away safely as his master had been sleeping off another all-night bender. The snake he left behind; she could fend for herself. Or not.

That same day, he found another location for his master to sleep it off, which hadn’t been as easy as he thought as the other safe homes on his rolodex were also in Goblin control. Finally, he found a domicile they could use: it was an old abandoned orphanage falling into disrepair. It would have to do. His master came around, Crucio’d him as usual since he was not only a mean drunk, he also hated getting up when the sun was up in the sky.

Peter told him what had happened with the Goblins. That resulted in another Crucio, thank you very much. Finally, though, FINALLY! His master began to think, to plan. His lord had spent the better part of August in party after party, drinking more than he should have, not that Peter was going to bring that up, no indeed.

The Wondrous Lord Voldemort began to pace, then move, then plot and plan. It was amazing to see genius at work. “What we need…” he started, and paused.

“Yes, my lord?” Peter prompted.

“Is a cunning plan. And a half-caf, full-caf, double-muggle expresso dairy-less coffee with whip cream, cinnamon, and a nutmeg shot. Get one now.”

Hours later when his lord work from his latest nap, Peter explained their predicament yet again, heated the cold cup of coffee and listened to his lord’s cunning plans.

Sllllrrrrppp. “Ahhhh. Okay, we need to first track down Potter.”

“Excellent plan, my lord.”

“Shut up; I’m not done. Once we find Potter, then we destroy him, and take over the world.”

Pause.

“Well?” he intoned with force.

“Um, how do you plan to find him, my lord?” Peter said the standard question his lord liked to hear.

“That is a good question, Wormtail. I have been giving it a lot of thought. You have told me in the past that one of young Harry’s favorite foods is tacos.”

Peter did not want to dash his chain of thoughts by saying that was one of McNair’s favorite foods of the week. Specifically, the week of the Nott-so-Naughty masquerade party when McNair showed up in the Emperor’s clothes. Pettigrew would never get that sight out of his head.

“So what we will do is start a taco revolution. We put a story in the paper, offering free tacos for those that help us with our revolution and extra tacos for the most kills of muggles made. That will force Potter out of hiding and we can grab him then.”

“Who is going to write the story and what paper will we put it in?”

Tom Riddle narrowed his eyes and thought of the suitable response. “Crucio!”

“Gaaahhh!” Peter gaaahhhed, spasming on the rotted orphanage floor. Moments later the spell was stopped and Peter looked at his lord from a prone position on the same floor. “Was that really necessary?”

Tom Riddle narrowed his eyes and thought of the suitable response. “Yes, Wormtail. I’m afraid it was.”

**-o0o-**

They planned long into the night, refining all the points they felt they needed. They even created a jingle for that campaign. It was when his lord and master ordered Pettigrew to place the ad that the next round of problems arose. Primarily, Peter had no money as he used the last for the coffee (or so he said, not bothering to tell Voldemort that he actually bought himself a snack there and stole the coffee). And Voldemort did not carry funds as that was beneath him.

Worse, Voldemort realized that with no money, he had no way to fund his lifestyle, let alone his intentions to take over the ministry. “Think, Pettigrew. Think of a way we can get money for our cause.”

“We could always rob someone,” Peter suggested.

Voldemort waved it off. “Too plebian. So, no.”

“How about stealing some cars and taking them to a chop shop?”

“Too mundane, so no.”

Peter cocked his thumb over his shoulder and said, “If we had a dancing monkey, we could use that crank case over there to have it jump around for the tourists, and get tips.”

Voldemort grinned. “Wormtail, we don’t need a monkey. We have a rat.”

**-o0o-**

Later that day they hit the touristy spot, Covet Garden. Voldie, again wearing his disguise, pulled the crank case out of one pocket, set it up, pulled Wormtail out of his other pocket, set him on the crank case and started cranking away.

The tune, as expected, was horrible. The crank box was in serious need of tuning. Or destruction. Take your pick. They managed to stay a few minutes before moving on. They had to move as they were being pelted with raw vegetables by the tourists who were buying them in droves from the free market entrepreneurs who sold rotten produce near where buskers played.

Hanging out at Leicester Square did nothing for them as well. Well, nothing good. But it certainly made Timothy Blaine’s day as the 8-year-old managed to get the weird, dancing rat with an extremely soft grapefruit that cost only 2 pence! Better yet, his mother recorded it on her camcorder. Unfortunately for Wormtail, however, the pit inside the peach was not soft and pegged him square on the head which knocked him out.

Hours later, after Wormtail recovered near a restaurant that sold the most amazing food but the two were unable to procure any as McDonald’s had a very stern No-Rat’s policy which they enforced with burly workers, the sun had long since set and they were going to try their luck one more time before resorting to criminal means. Make that, more criminal means.

The Lord of the Missing Nose got the crank case set up and started cranking out a tune the rat again danced to. Johnny’s was a hip and upcoming bar/disco that catered to tourists, locals, and those students studying abroad who had plenty of cash to spend thanks to some oblivious parents who knew nothing of what their kids were actually doing with the college tuition said students brought with them. The music was blaring like it always did. The lights inside flashed continuously, people yelled at one another to be heard over the deafening noise, and plenty of smoke and booze were in abundance. Still, with all that going for it, some of the patrons began to hear the decrepit music being played by the old geezer outside who had a dancing rodent of some kind gyrating on top of the weird looking box.

Said patrons, six men and three women, went outside to hear the music and see the varmint dance.

“Hey, pops,” said one of the men. “Can you can the music? I want to see that rat!”

“The crank case makes him dance,” said Voldemort, unsure where this conversation was going and really wishing he’d gotten something to eat at their last stop.

“Yeah, I get it, but if this rat really is dancing, you are next to Johnny’s. The music in there is loud enough to be heard out here. And frankly, your shitty music is making my ears bleed.”

I’d like to make more than that bleed, savagely thought Lord No-Nose. “Of course, young man. All we need are a few pence,” he began his spiel but quickly stopped when the kid tossed him a few silver coins. He stopped cranking but motioned for Wormtail to keep dancing.

Ha, ha! He had funds now! He could get a hamburger, whatever that was. He could have dinner!

**-o0o-**

So now, a month later, Peter was watching his master sleep off yesterday’s activities while hogging most of the cardboard box in the alley. If Peter hadn’t been in his rat animagus form, his lord’s constant fidgeting and turning would have ensured he had no sleep at all.

During the past month, Voldemort and Wormtail had their scam down to a science, Peter knew. They waited until the later hours of the night. Then his master would set up the crank case, begin cranking, Wormtail would begin dancing, and soon enough patrons at various establishments would come out to see what the racket was, get entranced by the dancing rat, and pay his lord and master to stop playing so they could enjoy watching the rat.

Unbeknown to those patrons, Voldemort would then enact some complicated wandless spells and relieve them of money they didn’t need. As he found out that first night, silver coins of the realm were not worth as much in 1995 as they had been 50 years earlier. And while he didn’t have enough for a hamburger that night, he did every night after that.

**-o0o-**

The third Thursday in October started the same as the previous day. The two free evil wizards carefully stalked the street, noticed there were no Bobbies in sight, set up shop near Club-A-Go-Go, and started cranking out a tune that all humans that were not tone-deaf would be maddened by enough to search it out and pay to stop it.

Minutes after starting the cranking, several individuals came out of the hopping nightclub. “Yo! Gramps! Shove off, yeah?!”

“I’m afraid my hearing isn’t so good, sonny,” the Dark Lord began his spiel.

“Hey, it’s that old geezer with the dancing rat,” one of the bigger blokes said.

“I remember him now,” said another of the big ruffians.

“What was that, boys?” Voldemort gave a false smile, struggling to turn that crank.

“I’d like to buy your rat,” said one of the men.

“The rat’s not for sale, boys,” Voldemort gave a glamour-toothless-grin. He realized his mistake as soon as he said it. There were six men around him and the dancing rat. Six men who were partially inebriated. Six men who were much more muscular than either Voldie or Pettigrew. Six men who hated being told ‘no.’

“You know,” bruiser #1 said as he down the rest of his straight whiskey. “I remember seeing your ugly face a couple weeks ago. I thought your rat was interesting then.”

“Uh, thanks?” Voldemort looked for an out.

“Funny thing about that night. I seem to have misplaced forty pounds.”

“Uh, that happens to the best of us. Look at me, I’ve misplaced a home.”

“But I don’t think you misplaced my forty pounds,” the very large chap said as he swung a ham-sized fist at Voldie’s head, connecting immediately. The tune on the crankcase stopped.

Peter watched in shocked amazement for a few minutes as those muggle goons beat up his master. Muggles! How could they?! Didn’t they know who he was? Wait, of course they didn’t. It was time to show them what a wizard could do! Filthy muggles!

Wormtail took a deep breath and began to release his inner human.

“Cor! Look at that bloody rat, Robert! It’s convulsing! Bet it’s got rabies or somethin’!”

“Or the plague!”

“Or the clap! What? I don’t know anything about rats and who they sleep with.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here before we catch something.”

The muggles left once Peter assumed human size. He helped his master up. “Master! We need to get you medical aid!”

“…diagon…” his master gasped, before passing out.

Peter managed to drag his master to Diagon where he went to purchase healing potions and found no one there would take muggle money.

“…gringotts…” his master muttered next.

Peter dragged his master through the doors of Gringotts and to a teller window. Unfortunately for Voldemort, Gringotts had since shut down its muggle-money exchange program at that bank, advising their customers to try one of the kiosks near the tube stations.

**-o0o-**

Lord Voldemort woke in his cardboard box late Saturday night. Peter hadn’t been able to buy healing potions from anyone in Diagon Alley, but had been able to get some aspirin from a local shop in London. Peter healed up his master as best he could which was enough for the dark lord to stabilize and then begin healing himself.

Peter handed his waking lord a cup of coffee he’s mugged someone for. The 13-year-old girl hadn’t offered any resistance when Pettigrew snarled at her and demanded her coffee. But being Timothy Blaine’s older cousin did have some advantages and when Pettigrew turned to leave, she found some suitable pieces of trash to throw at his head. She did whack him on his ear with an open can which managed to cut it. Peter was incensed at that point, turned to show her his displeasure and was hit in the forehead with a moldy peach that was soft, but its pit was not.

Peter fled with the purloined coffee back to his cardboard box that he shared with his lord and master.

They both knew they needed to play the crowds that night. Saturday night had the most drunks with the loosest cash. They had no choice.

Well past midnight, they set up shop near Pug N A Pub, Voldie started cranking and Wormtail began dancing. It took nearly 13 minutes before someone came out to see what the noise was. It was a strange woman who exited the Pub and headed their way.

**-o0o-**

Roughly 13 minutes earlier, Minerva “Minnie” McGonagall, former Hogwarts Transfiguration professor, former Head of Gryffindor House, former Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, and former member of the Order of the Phoenix slammed an empty shot glass onto the counter of the Highlander Horror tavern. “Gimme another!” she barked.

Bartender Roy Orbison (no relation), also known as a drunk’s professional babysitter, arched his bushy eyebrow (which oddly enough covered both eyes) over an unbelieving gaze. He was just amazed that this old battleax could put away more drinks than most of his regular patrons. Combined!

“I need ta cut ya off, ma’am,” Roy stated through his red-from-a-bottle handlebar moustache.

“C’mere, boyo,” Minnie used her finger in a come-hither manner to her resident alcohol babysitter.

“Ma’am,” Roy started, leaning closer.

Minnie grabbed his goatee and yanked him forward. “Ah loost everythin’ I had, me little boyo. My retirement is gone. Damn that Albus and his silver-tongued ability to get ta me savings. I need a drink. Yuir gonna gimme another drink, aye?”

“Ma’am,” Roy began. “I can’t. It’s against the law to give someone who is obviously intoxicated another drink. I don’t want to be sued if you crash your car on the way home.”

“Then yuir in luck, boyo. I don’t drive! Now gimme another Pina Colada or I’m gonna burn this Highlander Horror tavern down to the ground!”

“Um, what?” Roy said as he worked on the scary lady’s Pina Colada. Where the hell was she putting all that fluid without having to go to the bathroom?!

“Yuir bloody bar, numbskull! The Highlander Horror!”

“Uh, ma’am, this is the Pug N A Pub,” Roy handed the drink to the scary arson-minded lady.

She sucked some drink up a straw. “Ahhh,” she smiled. “Wait. When did this dump stop being the Highlander Horror?!”

“My mother bought the Highlander over 25 years ago. When was the… aww, shit! Is that asshole with the hand crank back?!” Roy bolted to the front door, looked out and stormed back to the bar. While Minnie guzzled her drink, Roy searched for and found a baseball bat. Aluminum. Good heft.

“Gimme another!” Minnie shouted, slamming her glass on the bar.

“Aw, c’mon! I gotta get rid… say, how about you do me a favor and I’ll get you another drink. On the house, even.”

“What is it?”

“Get rid of that crank playing whacko and his stupid rat.”

“Sure,” Minnie agreed, looking at the door. “Now?”

“Yes,” Roy ground out, wondering for the 200th time that night why he never went to Uni instead of slinging booze for a living.

**-o0o-**

Minnie’s eyes adjusted to the light outside. The Horror, no… the Pug A Pub (or whatever it was) was so bright inside compared to just a couple of lights on lampposts nearby. The dying crank box the decrepit geezer somehow kept alive hurt her ears. It acted to somewhat sober her up. She lurched towards him.

Only a few feet from him, she noticed the rat doing some sort of jig while the geezer seemed to have been beaten up a few times. She had to control the highlander pulse in her to add to that beating since that crank box was hurting her soul now instead of just her ears.

“Who are you?” Minnie nearly got out without a slur of the last word.

“Just your friendly neighbor crank,” the geezer wheezed, looking at Minnie without a care in the world since he didn’t recognize her through his still swollen eye sockets. If only he knew how much she wanted to pummel him, like she wanted to pummel that snake by the name of Albus!

“Huh,” she stated as if to mean: ‘Okay that makes sense’.

The geezer interpreted the drunken one-syllable response to mean: ‘Okay, that was a witty remark from the man with the crank box’.

Peter took it to mean, ‘Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’

“I like your rat,” Minnie said, swaying only slightly. “It’s funny.”

“Uh, thanks,” the old crank replied.

“I want to buy him. Now.”

“I cannot sell him, madam,” the previously-beaten up man said. “He is the only way I can make enough money to earn a living.”

“Listen, you old bastard,” she snarled. “If you don’t sell that rat to me right now, I’m going to stay here and tell you in vivid detail about how a girl’s friend shows up in her life, how it visits every month, and how it affects her for years to come.”

“Her friend? What kind of friend? The kind that will kill your enemies for you?”

“No. PMS.”

Voldemort had studied long on the dark path. He had sought knowledge for years in the dark arts. There was one thing that all the teachings made clear: don’t bother a witch when she had PMS. There were things that man was not meant to know.

“Whoa!” the scruffy-looking geezer shouted, stopping the crank and that awful sound. “I don’t want to know that! How much do you want to pay for the rat?!”

**-o0o-**

Minnie returned to the room she was staying in after first collecting the drink the Pug A Puppy owner owed her. Entering, she withdrew a glass jar from her cloak before throwing it over an old chair. She opened the jar and dumped the rat into a table-sized rat cage without anything else in there. She climbed into the cage while shifting to her cat animagus form. She landed at the bottom of the one meter tall cage and eyed her prey. She licked her lips and hissed, her front claw extending menacingly.

Wormtail had never seen anything so frightening as she quite literally scared the crap out of him.

Minnie the cat cocked her head sideways to see what the rat had done. There were rat pellets on the floor of the cage. Minnie lost the cat thought and transfigured back to her Human self. She began chuckling, then laughing.

“You know, rat,” she said, climbing out of the cage. “That is the first laugh I’ve had in months. I’m going to keep you.” Indeed, that was the first laugh she had had since finding out that no one was interested in her as a tutor like the other professors. No one wanted her. They considered her experience laughable at best. Some of her old students who now had children of their own had told her that she had been so focused on following rules that she never gave a damn about their education or their upbringing while at that school. She had been mortified to find out that the school paintings had more social interaction with the students than she did.

Minnie levitated the rat out of the floor cage and put him in a much smaller cage with 4 other male rodents. She sealed the cage and went to the couch where she passed out for the next 10 hours.

**-o0o-**

Shortly after waking, she checked on her rats only to find the new rat had been abused by all the other rodents in the cage. She noticed the new rat was in a corner crying while rubbing its sore behind. Opening the case, she took that new rat out.

“Sorry about that, ratty,” Minnie soothed while holding the squirming rat tight. “I shouldn’t have put you in that cage with the other boy rats.” She then opened another cage with a single female rat and put him in there. “Have fun with this one, Foamy,” she said, leaving the two rats to go at it.

**-o0o-**

Hours later she returned to check on the rat couple and saw that Foamy was still beating the new rat up. “That’s odd,” she muttered to herself. “Foamy only beats up the new rats for a little bit, not hour after hour. Why is she so interested in tormenting you, my little new rat?”

**-o0o-**

Not having enough funds for another all-nighter, Minnie went to a local shelter, got some food, and returned to her room where she finally pulled the bed out of the couch and had a good night’s sleep. The next morning, she checked on her rats again and noticed that Foamy was still terrorizing the new rat.

Remembering her idle thought from yesterday that Foamy hadn’t shown this much animosity to a rat in like, ever, Minnie decided to see if there was something amiss with that rat. She grabbed her wand and got to work. All too soon she figured out who that new rat was: Peter Pettigrew.

“My word,” she muttered to herself. “My Potter will want to know about this right away. It will prove his godfather is innocent to the authorities. Hmmm. I can’t go the Ministry – they are useless in just about everything. Ah! I know!”

**-o0o-**

Minerva went immediately to Diagon Alley and to Gringotts. If anyone knew the whereabouts of Mr. Potter, she reasoned, then it would be the Goblins who were in his employ. She entered the Bank’s doors and was a little startled at the changes. Teller windows were not open save only two this afternoon. However, a new addition had been added where one of the teller windows had previously been. The sign above the window stated: Travel Services. The line for the Teller not on lunch break was a bit long so she went to the Travel window where a young woman (who was definitely not a Goblin) sat.

“Yes, ma’am?” the young lady greeted. “How may I help you?”

“What’s all this?” Minnie said in a still-processing kind of voice.

“This is Gringott’s foray into the Vacation market, ma’am. This window was set up only a week ago, and we have been quite busy. We offer services for the discreet traveler who needs to rent a boat and sail away from the country fast. No questions asked. We also book tours to the Continent; any of them actually. We can also procure one-way tickets to countries without extradition treaties.”

“Uh, yes, that’s all interesting, but I meant, what was this?” Minerva pointed at a brochure on the desk.

Jennifer Nettles (no relation) noticed what the older witch was pointing at and answered with a pleasant smile. “That is our trip package to Historical Haunted Hogwarts Bed and Breakfast. It is already quite popular after only being open for nearly two months. In fact, without a reservation you will not get a room. They are quite booked up for the next four months.”

“Oh,” the processing continued and then, ding! A light went off in Minerva’s head. “Since Hogwarts was reclaimed by Mr. Potter, I take it this Historically Hogwarts Haunting…”

“Historically Haunted Hogwarts, ma’am. It is also called Triple-H B&B if that helps.”

“Um, yes. Mr. Potter still owns it then?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” Jennifer smiled as if Minerva was the best customer in the world even though she wasn’t going to buy anything. Jennifer had been working with the Goblins long enough to sense that right away. “Mr. Potter is still listed as the sole owner. Would you like to book a trip?”

“Ah, no. But I would like to contact Mr. Potter with some information. How may I go about doing that?”

“You could use the floo and make a call to the castle’s concierge, but that will cost 1G for five minutes. You can use one of the Bank’s owls to send a message, but that will cost 1G per day.”

“Hmmm,” Minerva grumbled. “That’s a bit more than I have right now.”

“Or you could leave the message with me and I will make sure it gets sent along with other correspondence to Triple-H at the end of the week.”

“And the fee?”

“Five knuts.”

“Alright,” she agreed, pulling out the money while handing Jennifer an envelope. “You’ll make sure it is delivered to Mr. Potter.”

“I’ll make sure its contents get delivered to the right person to get it to Mr. Potter’s attention.”

“Thank you, uh…”

“Jennifer Nettles,” the Travel agent supplied.

Minerva turned and walked out the Bank, never once looking back. Had she done so, she might have wondered why Ms. Nettles had a scowl on her face. No, it had nothing to do with Minerva not buying anything as that happened all the time. It was more the fact that Minerva had to be supplied Jennifer’s name. Jennifer was Hogwarts alum, class of 1984, and she had been in Gryffindor. She had even been a prefect. Her name then had been Jennifer McTavish, and Nettles was her married name, but she had been a good student.

No, Jennifer was not happy that Minerva, former Hogwarts professor did not remember her. All she could think of for a few minutes until the next customer came in was: the house you were sorted in was to be family for 7 years, that the family would look out for one another and Professor McGonagall in turn would look out for everyone else. Yeah, right. She looked out for rules and discipline. Not for the kids in her care.

Jennifer still put Minerva’s letter in the interoffice mail bag. This would be marked to Mr. Potter’s Account Manager for immediate attention. Who knows, maybe she might get some sort of bonus out of it.

**-o0o-**

Two days later, Wormtail was still in the cage with Foamy, who had not let up on the daily beatings she was giving the other rat. Minerva had looked the situation up in ‘The Home Veterinarian’ book she kept handy. “She’s beating you up because she doesn’t like male rats who are also animagus, Peter,” Minerva said to the rat who was now in an unbreakable box. “Fortunately, there is a remedy.”

Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

“I just need to make sure she doesn’t recognize you as a male. Let’s see… ah, here it is. To neuter a male at home, use the Explosivo Castrado spell,” she read.

Peter began shrieking rat-shrieks.

Minerva picked up her wand and swished it a few times to get the dust off it. “Okay, this won’t hurt me much at all,” she said, looking at the spell book one last time before putting her gaze on Wormtail.

To Peter’s immense relief, an owl arrived carrying a letter. She took the letter and read the contents.

To: Ms. McGonagall

From: Junior Account Manager, Papercutter

Subject: Hidden Animagus

Your recent correspondence regarding the hidden animagus Peter Pettigrew, also known as Wormtail, has been received. Mr. Potter thanks you for your due diligence in finding Wormtail. While it no longer matters if Wormtail has been apprehended in regards to Mr. Sirius Black’s innocence, Mr. Potter is quite happy that his parent’s snitch has been located and apprehended.

Should you wish to sell the rat, you may do so at any time. Simply go to the Triple-H B&B and ask for the manager. You may sell the rat for the specified sum of 500G, or should you like, you may stay at any time at the Triple-H B&B where you will have a line of credit waiting along with a month’s free stay.

Minerva never did read any further in the letter. A chance to go back to Hogwarts? Hell yes, she would jump at that chance. A few deft flicks of the wand and she was packed and ready to go. Best yet, she would get out of paying rent on her room for the past few weeks.

All too soon she was in front of the Triple-H B&B manager who took Wormtail off her hands, cage and all with a promise to return Foamy to her once Foamy finished beating Wormtail up. Minerva was then given a line a credit and escorted to her room, which ironically was her old office less the office furniture. She put her luggage away, went down to the bar and proceeded to get blind stinking drunk.

At the end of February, 1996, she opened an eye. She was in her room. Check. It was morning. Check. There was a Goblin sitting on a chair next to her bed. Wait. What?

“Ms. McGonagall?” the Goblin said. It was not a question.

“Yes,” she muttered, lifting her head off the fluffy pillow covered in drool.

“My name is Papercutter.”

“Okay.” She blinked her eyes some more to get rid of the cobwebs.

“You sold your rat, Wormtail, at the end of last October. In exchange, you were give a month’s free room and board along with a line of credit.”

“Yes,” she blinked a few more times. “I recall. Thank you for that. Is the month over?”

“Ms. McGonagall,” Papercutter stated sternly. “Your free month ended over three months ago. Further, your credit line ended after the first week you were here. I will not go into how many times you were dragged back to your room by the staff once you were drunk, and how you were eventually confined here to keep the other guests safe. I have no idea how you managed to convince the house elves to keep bringing your drink after drink.”

“I did?”

“Yes, Ms. McGonagall. You did. You have seriously abused Mr. Potter’s generosity and need to pay restitution.”

“How?” she croaked, dressing. “I’ve got nothing left to my name. If Albus hadn’t swindled me out of my savings, then the bank seizures would have done it. How am I to pay restitution?”

“It just so happens that a position is open here at Triple-H for someone of your skills,” said Papercutter.

“I’ll take it,” Minerva jumped at the opportunity.

“It is a 4-year appointment.”

“I’ll take it.”

“It is not doing the same thing you previously did.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Very well, sign here. You will be paid the going rate for this position. A portion of your salary will be deducted to pay for your overstay here. Barring any unforeseen issues, you should have this paid off well before your contract expires.”

**-o0o-**

“Argus,” Papercutter said. “I would like to introduce you to your apprentice janitor. She has agreed to a 4-year contract. Please show her what she needs to do.” The Goblin left, sure that Argus would do his duty.

Minerva looked at the former Hogwarts School caretaker, shock clearly on her face. The last time she had seen Argus was when she got the children to the train. He had taken a headcount, verified they were all accounted for, told her the news and then left. She had thought he went back to his quarters to get ready to leave himself. That day his scowl had been pronounced and looked even worse as his scraggly, greasy hair hung at his shoulders and his teeth were even more horrible than usual, as if he took personal pleasure in not brushing them.

Now, though. Now… Argus had hair that was clearly combed and neatly trimmed to what contemporary standards. His fingernails were clean. His teeth brushed. In fact, his teeth were straight of all things! And his scowl. His scowl was missing! ‘Where was her wand,’ Minerva thought. This was an imposter.

“Good to see you again, Minerva,” Argus greeted without any sort of condemnation in his delivery.

“Argus?” Imposter! It had to be.

“No need for hostility, Minnie. It’s still me. Now let me show you what you need to do around here at Triple-H.”

**-o0o-**

Months later, Minerva was back in the classroom. Of course, it wasn’t used as a classroom. At least like she remembered it. Her mop and mop bucket were with her as usual. Mop in, wet it good with the bleach-smelling water, wring it out, and then get to mopping up the inadvertent pee puddles the guests’ young children sometimes left behind. Lord knows what those house elves did with all those green poo-laden diapers. Hopefully they sent them off somewhere to get cleaned.

The former classroom she was in was sometimes used over the years, and sometimes not. It all depended on the size of the student body. Now? Now it was used daily. Inside the room were various torture implements. The ancient garrotte with its massive turn handle that would shrink the collar around the victim’s throat that would be tied to its chair. The Iron Maiden with all the various spikes inside it.

This must have been where Argus put his collection, she thought. It had to be. This wasn’t the first time she had been in this room. Usually she came in after the last of the tours had been concluded for the day and took care of any cleaning that needed to be done. But today she had been called up to take care of a pee puddle. She was certain some child had left it behind. Probably got frightened by all the instruments of death.

The door opened and another tour came through. Gasp! There were children along. Young ones. In fact, a lot of children. And… Argus was in front of them.

But she knew Argus. He hated kids. And now surrounded by all the torture devices that he liked so much, he was going to revert to his old behavior. Now she knew why Papercutter had offered her the job. She was needed to keep the children safe from Argus!

She noticed Argus wink at the few adults along. They were in it too? Were they all going to torture these poor, wee children?

Argus walked up to the podium in the corner of the room by a window. “So, you kids want to know what it was like hundreds of years ago when kids your own age even went to school, do ya? Well, let me tell you how it was.”

This is it, Minerva thought. This was when Argus would show his real side. She needed to get ready to protect the children.

“It was not all mass-produced text books, mass-produced cafeteria food, and mass-produced thinking. It real since it mattered. Fires. Starvation. Fighting. It was all real. And when kids came to this castle – yes, it was a school for a time, they remembered at first. They buckled down to learn since what they learned would allow them to live a better life.”

He paused, his visage turning sour, cruel.

“But as years went by, they forgot what it was like. They thought everything was like it was inside this school. Safe. Well-fed. But then the headmaster of the school thought they needed to remind the children what it was like outside so they would not forget. So they would quit being lazy with their studies and focus on making their lives better.

“So the headmaster hired a school caretaker. Oh, this caretaker was just another man, the children thought. He would not hurt us any more than the teachers at the school would. They thought this man was another person they could ignore. But no! No, this man was a miserable, cantankerous, ogre of a man whose breath caused paint to peel, except on the third floor where he never went.” Some kids laughed. “So after seeing the slovenly ways of the students, the caretaker needed to do something to wake them up to the perils of the outside world.”

“What did he do, sir?” one of the kids asked, her eyes wide.

Argus began moving around to the torture devices. “Oh, he introduced them to all sorts of nasty things if they stayed lazy. He showed them this thing: it’s called the Catherine Wheel where this miserable caretaker would put a student on it and spin it around. There is also this thumbscrew. And these chains and irons. Shackle a student to a wall for a weekend and see if they forget to hand in an assignment, or hand in a late assignment in the future, eh?

“And,” he paused again to gain their attention as he moved closer to them. “And when those didn’t work, and when the children were still too lazy to learn, you know what he did next?”

“What?” the same girl said nervously.

Minerva got ready to pounce.

“He… he… it was so horrible, I don’t know if I can say it,” Argus admitted.

“What was it?” more kids wanted to know.

“He… he didn’t let them have any pudding after dinner!” Argus pulled the manacles still in his hands closer to the kids and shook them in an exaggerated manner. “Ha, ha! Got you, you scamps! Hope you are all having a fun time here! Take a look around and mind you to be careful as some of these have sharp edges.” Not the Iron Maiden, he thought. Those rusty spikes were replaced with rubber long ago.

‘What the hell just happened?’ Minerva thought. Argus nice to kids? And now he was meeting with the parents and laughing with them? What the…? Imposter! It had to be!

Minerva never bothered to talk with Argus nor find out that he too had lost his retirement savings when the bank put a hold on his funds. She never did find out that Argus came back to the castle a few days after the teachers and staff had to leave and ask for his old job back. She never did find out that the new staff at Triple-H didn’t need Argus as a caretaker, but they certainly wanted someone that could easily scare kids in a good way. The staff worked with Argus to clean him up, and when they told him what they wanted him to do and that they were giving him a new title as well as a hefty raise to get him to market standard, they found it hard to keep the smile off his face all the time since after a few years working there he would have enough to replace his savings.

Argus remained at Triple-H for better than a decade until his knees finally gave out and he wanted to retire. He had a good nest egg built up from his salary, the tips the parents gave him, and the stock tips that he investing parents gave him in lieu of cash. It was all good and he was set to retire.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
The following comment from a reader is what prompted Minnie’s shafting. After all, the comment was something I agreed with – she didn’t show she cared, even if she thought she did.

Comment: I’m hesitantly looking forward to what you do to McGonagall, but she definitely deserves some serious backlash for never doing her job as either a teacher and enforcing rules or as head of house and defending her lion even from his house mates. Family my far furry arse! If that is a family, I’d prefer adoption.

Q: Does anyone know where Foamy came from? First one to say gets a special shout out in the next chapter.

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	15. Shafting the Parkinson’s, and Wizengamot alum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy's story and a garage sale

**Author’s Note:**  
Special shout out for Foamy reference goes to: everyone – all reviewers knew who Foamy was. However, it was an unnamed Guest response who responded first with knowing that Foamy was in a Rorschach’s Blot story. But it was reader otterylexa who knew all the answers and said:

“A: Foamy comes from the adventures of Foamy, Kung Fu Toad, and Laser Owl in ‘Lets do the Time Warp Again’ by Rorschach’s Blot. Foamy the Rat is a tribute to Foamy the Squirrel, who can be found at iLL WiLL PreSS ( illwillpress dot com).”

Of course, it was .7 who asked about Lazer Owl and Kung Fu Toad. That sparked an idea and I have just spent the last few hours creating a new chapter that will come about soon enough with more characters.

Will this story ever end?

It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

Pansy Parkinson was raised as an entitled witch. She was a pureblood. She came from a long line of purebloods, naturally. She was going to get married to a pureblood and have a pureblood baby. She was going to have house elves that would take care of the baby while she went to parties. It was the circle of life as far as she was concerned.

When she was 11, she entered Hogwarts. Her status as a pureblood was known to many at the school before she showed up and to even more after she walked the halls. In her first week, she had scored many new things that she didn’t need but that she wanted. And a few that she didn’t need nor wanted but were necessary to receive as to maintain status. Maintain prestige as the top-ranking pureblood. Along with her Draco, of course.

This turn of events went on for days, weeks, months, and years. It was glorious.

And, of course, it all ended the evening of September 1, 1995. Goblins. Collars. Rooms. Many people.

It was a very confusing night.

What the hell were caseworkers anyway? And why was one assigned to her?

**-o0o-**

Pansy knew she was in England. She was being held against her will by people that spoke words she knew in an accent she recognized. So, she knew she was in England. All she needed to do was figure out where they were all being held. After all, there were only so many magical enclaves in all of England.

She spoke with Draco and the others that morning after those awful Goblins stole her freedom. And those awful collars. Her Draco was smart. He was making plans. They would play along. Then meet up, find a way to get rid of that binding, get rid of Potter, and resume their lives. She agreed with the plan. It was the proper thing to do. After all, how could it fail? She was a pureblood. And her Draco acted so much like her father. And he was a pureblood too.

**-o0o-**

Pansy met with her caseworker, Jessica. This Jessica spoke with her last night and tried again speaking with her that day. As a pureblood, she understood what this woman was trying to do. She had told Pansy repeatedly that she was being used like a tool by her father and many others that she knew. But that muggle-lover was trying to confuse her. She must have put a confundus on her.

Pansy was a pureblood. She knew better. She would tell this Jessica what she needed to hear. Then she would do what Draco needed her to do. She told Jessica this as well, not bothering to hide the fact that she was a pureblood and knew more than this muggle-lover.

Jessica, however, wasn’t fooled by what Pansy stated. Sure, Pansy was part of a Death Eater family whose parents were heavy supporters of that evil jerk. But… Pansy was not one to have an original thought in her head. She really was a tool. She asked one last time what Pansy really wanted out of life and what she wanted to do.

Pansy thought for a moment. A few more moments. That became minutes as she could see that Pansy was thinking. But in the end, Pansy repeated the things that Draco wanted her to. It was the same plan that the monitoring charms had picked up earlier. Jessica knew that with a little more time, she could get to Pansy.

But time was not on her side.

**-o0o-**

Pansy went to a foster home in Bristol early the morning of September 4th, her magic having been bound. Still somewhat in a daze, Pansy was walked to a bedroom where a single bed next to a window vied for space with a bunk bed in the cramped room. The room did have other occupants who were currently not there. Two of the three beds looked to belong to others. The foster home’s owner, 69-year-old Dianna Prince (no relation) gave Pansy the same type of introductory speech as Draco, less the skillet to the noggin as Pansy was a fast learner, or at the very least had a better ability to keep her mouth shut as she learned things. There would be no breaking the statute or else. Pansy took the top bunk and laid down for a nap.

The room’s other two occupants showed up later that afternoon. Pansy met two other girls near her age, only a year younger. They were twins. It would take a year for Pansy to gain their trust and find out that their mother called them ‘Hey you!’ while their “uncles” (which was a polite term they were forced to use when their mother invited men to sleep with her for money) simply called them Kid-1 and Kid-2. They had been taken away from their mother during a police bust, put into the system and eventually made their way three years ago to Mrs. Prince’s home. The best decision they ever made (they later knew) was to not run away from that home.

“Hey,” one of the twins said to the other. “We got a roommate. My name’s Sharon Clouster. This is my sister, Sharna. What are you in for, kid?”

Pansy sat up on the top bunk, hit her head on the ceiling, ducked down a bit while rubbing the sore spot and said, “I used to be a witch and was picked up as part of a government-wide slavery act.”

Sharon looked at her sister and cocked an eyebrow. Sharna nodded slowly. “Uh-huh,” Sharon said as if thinking. “That’s quite a story. Okay. My turn. My sister and I were born in a land far, far away. We were princesses in that land but our father was seduced to the dark side. My sister and I had to be hidden away so that an even darker master could not find us and turn us into his personal dark slaves.”

Pansy nodded and said, “Hear that.”

Her sister continued, “Let me tell you, Sharon and I were never so happy to get off that desert world, er, out of that desert city and back here. Then we too were caught by a government slavery purge, fingerprinted since someone said we were shoplifting, and next thing you know here we are. Welcome to the sisterhood of the, um…”

“Dark Jedi,” Sharon immediately answered.

“Dark Jedi?” Pansy rolled the title around in her mouth.

“Yeah!” Sharna said. “Sounds way cooler than just saying you’re a witch or something.”

“That does make sense. And the title, well that sounds great!”

**-o0o-**

“Yo, Pansy!” Sharon said loudly. “We’re heading out to see a movie with some school friends. You coming?”

“Really? You want me to come along?”

“Yeah. What’s so strange with that?” Sharna wondered.

“No one ever asked me to do anything with them in my last school.”

“You ever pay for anything?” Sharon inquired.

“No,” Pansy returned. “People usually paid for things for me. I guess they wanted to suck up to me.”

Sharna replied, “Yeah, so not going to happen. You need to pay for yourself. No one is going to curry any sort of favors from you, so get used to it. And don’t be a country bumpkin when we meet the rest.”

“Okay. Sounds fun. I’m in. What’s a movie?”

Sharon looked at her as if she’d just landed on this planet. “Pansy? That country bumpkin thing; we really meant that.”

Pansy grew up in a patriarchal society. What her father said was law in the house. When she was a young girl she had learned the first of many lessons: don’t annoy your father. Years later when she had a friend over, and her father went bat-shit crazy for some perceived reason or other, she realized another thing: her mother was a doormat which her father and the rest of “polite” society expected.

Pansy hadn’t wanted to be a doormat, hadn’t wanted to feel inferior, but after seeing what her father could do to his mother with seeming impunity, she didn’t want that either. She learned more lessons over the years. And now she was learning new lessons without magic. These included: her friends were cool, quit saying the first thing that came to mind and instead watch and learn, and finally, her father was a fucking dink for not letting Pansy have fun like this years ago.

She went to her first movie; a double-feature. And for some reason she gained a reputation at school as someone hardcore (whatever that meant) for not being scared shitless or grossed out while watching Children of the Corn I and II. Really, what was the big deal? It’s not like she hadn’t seen a ritual or two in her life.

**-o0o-**

Time flew. Pansy went to the local secondary until she was 18. At age 17 she met a boy and they began dating. She told him they could date and she was fine with all the suggestions he had for dates (dancing, music, beach, and so on), but she had a request: she needed to see at least one movie a week. He was happy to comply. Especially since he wasn’t wealthy and couldn’t take her dancing, to concerts, or to the beach very often. But he could take her to see the early (cheap) movies every Saturday.

**-o0o-**

On July 13, 2002, Pansy McCloud left a movie theatre in Dundee. With her were her three children: Patrick (5), Mary (3), and Lisa (1). Lisa was asleep in the stroller that her husband, Conner, pushed next to her. They had just seen a matinee showing of the Steve Irwin movie, ‘The Crocodile Hunter’.

The children had enjoyed the movie. Seeing animals they did not know was eye opening. Plus, they had popcorn. The two awake kids, being kids, promptly ignored their parents in favor of concentrating on the most important thing in the universe: namely, themselves. Their parents talked while the two kids examined everything in sight, while at the same time not getting out of sight from their mum who was known to shatter windows when she yelled their names.

Pansy and Conner were having a discussion. It was not a discussion about the silly movie they had just watched. No, it was of a far more serious, far more life-saving nature.

“Look,” Pansy said with some exasperation, “all I’m saying is that if you were being attacked by a horde of inferii…”

“Infer what?” her husband frowned at the new term.

“Whoops. Sorry about that. Um, that’s Polish for Zombie. So if you were being attacked by a horde of zombies, you have time to figure your next move. They don’t go that fast, right? So don’t go to a mall or arm yourself with chainsaws. Instead, get a backpack and load it up with every aerosol can you can find and grab as many lighters and matches you can get. Then, once a zombie comes at you, flick the lighter and spray it with some concentrated hairspray. Instant zombie torch. A zombie is already dead, so there’s nothing to keep it moist, right. Do this and you have a good chance of getting out of any situation alive. Especially if the zombie torch is attracting other zombies to its location.”

“Okay,” Conner said, watching little Mary go up to a window a few feet up from him and look at what was inside. “I’ll give you that that’s a good way to create walking torches, but what are you going to do if a zombie comes at you from a water source, like a pool or a lake? It will be wet with moisture and won’t light up. Figure that one out.”

“Alright, if they are coming at me from a water source, give me a scenario. What is around me? How many are there? How long have they been in the water? Are any other survivors with me?”

“Oh, come on,” Conner grinned lightly. “Think of the zombie movie from last week. Put yourself in that situation.”

“Alright, I will. Hold up. Mary? What is it sweetheart?”

“Tree!” she said in a typical loud child’s voice while pointing to a decal of a pine tree on the window of the shop she was jumping up and down in front of.

A few seconds later Mary’s parents joined her and Patrick as they saw the tree sticker on the window. Conner leaned down to tell Mary what kind of tree it was that she was pointing towards while Pansy looked at the shop window itself. The name of the establishment, Go Green Diaper Washing, was stenciled on the window in big gold letters. In smaller letters on the glass door was their motto of: ‘We’ll take care of your kid’s crap for you!’

Pansy, thinking it would be absolutely lovely for someone else to have to wash the diapers, inspected the rates listed on the window. She motioned for Conner to look at them as well. “Look at these prices,” Pansy said. “That is very reasonable.”

“I know, but,” he hesitated the say the next thing. “Can’t you just keep washing them? I know it is an awful thing, but we just moved here for my job and I don’t want to spend any more than we need to until we have a good handle on the bills.”

“Conner,” his wife said in a deceptively calm voice. “Have you ever washed diapers? Especially Mary’s when she started solids?”

“No, darlin’, I didn’t,” he agreed, knowing that he should have just kept his mouth shut to start.

“Look at their prices! It is dirt cheap. And they pick up and deliver! You think smelling it back home was bad, now that we’re here and having to live in a smaller home, it will be worse.”

“Yes, I understand, dear,” he began but was cut off.

“Look, all I’m saying is that I’d like any assistance on this because, let’s face it, I hate changing and washing diapers. And as far as I’m concerned, those green poo-stained diapers can be washed by someone else.”

Patrick, not interested in a tree since he was older and knew everything there was about trees, looked at something else that was far more interesting. He looked through the window into the shop and saw that past the counter with the cash register were these two old-people that looked really hot. He could tell they were old since they had gray hair. The man was swishing something around in a big vat with a large wooden stick while the woman was putting these white towels or sheets or like Lisa’s diapers between these two rollers, then she twisted a crank and it sucked the diaper through, wringing the water out. Once finished, she hung the diaper (Patrick thought it might not have been a diaper, but still wasn’t sure) onto a long, long clothes line like his mum did and she went back to get the next one.

The old woman wringing out the diapers took a moment to wipe the sweat off her brow and looked at the window. She saw a child there, looking at her. She saw another, younger child looking at her. And then she saw the older couple talking. She took another look. The old store they were in did not use very much electricity, and what it did use went mostly for the cash register, the credit card reader, and the light in the loo. The shop was a good 100 years old (if not older), poorly ventilated, and hot as hell in the summer to the point that keeping the doors and windows open was the only ventilation she and her husband had. But all that allowed them to have the official certificate that they were a green store.

But all that was immaterial as she noticed the woman. She said something to the man who looked at her and then at the front window. She hadn’t been imagining it, he agreed. They stopped what they were doing and rushed to the front of the store and out the open door.

“Pansy!” yelled the old man.

“Pansy! My daughter!” yelled the old woman.

Pansy’s eyes opened wide. It is her mother and father.

“Mother,” Pansy gasped out, more startled and old habits coming to the front of her thoughts. “Father.”

“We have thought about you for a long time, dear,” her mother smiled in relief.

“Uh, yes. Um… where are my manners? This is my husband, Conner McCloud, and our children, Patrick, Mary, and our youngest that’s asleep is Lisa.”

“I don’t recognize the McCloud name. Are you from the continent? How far back can you trace your lineage?” her father said.

“Father!” Pansy said.

“Pansy?” Conner left the rest unsaid as he motioned to the two old-people.

Pansy took a calming breath and let it out slowly. “Right,” she said. “Conner, kids, this is my mother, Aguila Parkinson, and my father, Virgo Parkinson.”

“Your husband is tall and strong, Pansy,” her mother approved imperiously. “He looks strong enough to kill Potter and take everything of his.”

“How big is your magical core, young man?” her father questioned.

“Yes,” her mother continued. “Can you snap the bindings holding us in this hell hole? I want my manor back. I want my house elves back! I want my magic back!” she all but shrieked. No, scratch that. She did shriek it if the looks they were drawing was any indication.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Pansy swore as she rolled her eyes in irritation. She pulled a silver necklace free from under her blouse. It was a gift from her caseworker in 1998. Now it was needed. She pressed the blue fake gem in the middle and barked, “I need Aurors! Obliviation needed!”

“Pansy, what…” Conner started but stopped as several people seemed to appear out of thin air. They were dressed as if they just came from a teaching post wearing professor robes, or something. He wasn’t sure.

“Aurors here. Who called?”

“I did,” Pansy stated. “We have a class 2 breech and need to obliviate the muggles nearby. Over there, there and the couple quickly walking away by that car over there,” she pointed.

“Stay here,” the lead Auror said as he and his partner began their work.

“Pansy,” Aguila began while watching the oblivations quickly performed.

“Not another word, mother!” Pansy snapped back, furious.

In seconds, the two Aurors were back, wanting to know what was going on while casting privacy and notice-me-not spells around all of them.

“What’s the situation that caused this breech?” said the lead Auror.

“I am a bound witch, part of the 1995 Goblin collection. I am allowed full freedom of movement. These are my parents, who are part of the Screwed Initiative. They thought my husband and I were here to liberate them from their job via magical means.”

“Were you?” said the lead Auror.

“No. We stopped here by accident. I have not seen my parents since September 1st, 1995 when I left home for school. My husband is non-magical and…”

“Non-magical?! Pansy! You disgrace!” snapped her father.

“Fuck you, father!” Pansy snapped back. She took a moment, calmed herself, and addressed the Auror again. “My husband received a new position here last month, and we moved here two weeks ago. I did not know my parents were here. It was just a fluke that we passed this storefront.”

“All right. We are going to need to oblivate this from your family,” said the second Auror.

“Do so for my parents. But not my husband or children. While he is a muggle, my children have shown signs of magic. I do not want an oblivation scar to mar their cores.”

“Understood,” the lead Auror agreed. “You will not be able to come back here or this will happen again.”

“Not to worry. I will not be coming back to this shop. Ever.”

“Pansy!” her mother wailed as the two Aurors began pushing them back into their shop. “Don’t let them take our memory of you today!”

“Come on, kids,” Pansy ushered her kids into motion as she took the stroller from her husband and pushed it away from the store. “Let’s all go home.”

The family was quiet as they made their way to a bus, and then back home. The kids did not know what happened but soon forgot about it while Pansy and her husband didn’t really talk about anything other than making sure the kids were okay. Once home, they family cleaned up, relaxed the rest of the day, had dinner, read books to the kids, and finally put the children to bed.

Pansy finished brushing her teeth and sat on the edge of the bed in her night clothes. Her hands were in her lap as Conner changed to his sleepwear as well.

“Want to talk about it?” he said as he went to brush his teeth.

“I’ve been thinking of how to say this for a long time. I thought we would have longer before I said this, but here goes. Magic is real. I’m a witch. Patrick is a wizard. Mary is a witch. I’m sure Lisa will be a witch as well. Magic people have a hidden society. If the secret of magic gets out, those that have the secret have their memories obliviated which is done by the people you saw me call for today. It doesn’t harm muggles, so I’m told.”

“And I’m a muggle?” Conner said after spitting a glob of toothpaste into the sink.

“Non-magicals are called muggles, yes. There’s a lot more that I haven’t said, but that is the most important part. That magic is real.”

“And what was that bound thing you said earlier?” He opened a drawer in the bathroom and pulled out a knife. It was still shiny. He hid it from her view.

“My parents were part of a terrorist group that wanted to kill or enslave all those that didn’t worship them. They were stopped by Harry Potter, who is the same age as me. He didn’t have this big battle where all these people died. Instead, he legally took all their money, all their belongings, and had them stripped of their magic. I was part of the proceedings. I didn’t say the right things to simply keep my magic and walk away free.”

“Well, you are free. You are a good mother, darling.”

“Conner, you don’t understand. My mother is a water sign and my father is an earth sign. Together they made mud. Namely, me. Should I be proud of them? Family doctrine states I should be, but I’m not proud of them. I’m mortified by them. By what they nearly made me become.”

She took another calming breath. She really needed to destress from this awful day. Still, she knew what needed to be done. “But you do need to become aware of magic, if only for the kids’ sake. We will go to a magic market tomorrow so you can get an idea of what I grew up in. I just didn’t want you to freak out when you saw magic for the first time.”

He finished brushing his teeth, turned the light out in the bathroom and came to her side of the bed. He sat down and looked at her with an intense gaze, the knife slipping into his hand, still hidden from her view.

“I am looking forward to that, my dear. But there is something I need to tell you as well. And… I don’t want you to freak out when I tell you my secret.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“I am Connor McCloud of the Clan McCloud. I was born in 1518 in the village of Glenfinnan on the shores of Loch Shiel. And I am immortal.” He stabbed himself in the heart with the concealed knife.

She looked at him as he fell to the bed in agony. A moment passed where Pansy rolled her eyes. “You’ve used that same bloody line at least once a month ever since I met you. Just because your name sounds the same as the Highlander’s doesn’t make you him. For the Good Lord’s sake, it’s not even spelled the same. Now would you put that fake knife away before I throw it at your head?”

Conner rolled over to look at his wife. “Yes, my most beloved witch. As you wish.”

Pansy giggled at his reference and then pounced on him. Maybe her life didn’t suck as much as she thought it once had.

**-o0o-**

Chesterfield Langford, the head of the Lanford family which had been part of the Wizengamot for over 700 years sat in the formal sitting room of his manor, sipping tea as befit his status. Across from him sat Lawrence Pippins, head of the Pippins family which had been part of the Wizengamot for over 600 years. As the junior of the two, it was incumbent of Lawrence to travel to Chesterfield’s residence; not the other way around.

“Chester,” Lawrence said once the tea had been sipped three times, as protocol stated. “We need to do something about our businesses and soon. This is the third month in a row that I have lost business.”

Chester sipped his tea as Lawrence talked, as protocol stated. “I have lost business steadily too. Somehow there is new competition in my diaper business. I have not paid my workers this month.”

“But you not paying your workers means they will not purchase my items.”

“Bah. They will have to make do,” Chester said irritably, missing Lawrence’s point that Chester’s lack of payment would hurt Lawrence’s bottom line.

The two individuals had been there when the Goblin addressed the Wizengamot. They understood that Mr. Potter had acquired all those other families and their finances. Still, even with the Goblin giving them a free financial lesson, they didn’t think they were be affected by this.

Chester and Lawrence had never heard the following story from their fathers or grandfathers. Why should it have meant anything to them? They were part of the entitled elite.

The story went: A man left his country and arrived at another. He had nothing to his name. No money, no family, nothing. To survive, he had to make something of himself. He did. He was intelligent. He worked hard. He made a lot of money, married, and had children. The children were raised much better off than they would have been had the man not been so motivated to make a better life for himself and his family. The regrettable thing there was: those kids didn’t know any better. They began to think they were better than others. They then taught that attitude to their kids and so on. That was the old boy network. And that was the Wizengamot in a nutshell.

The hidden part of the story was when the old rich boys were no longer the smartest ones on the block. A new man came along, was motivated to make a name for himself, made that money for himself and his family. All good, but in this case: where did that money come from? It came from the losses those old boys were now experiencing. And that was why they need to get Mr. Potter back under control, one way or another.

“We need to find a way to bring new money in, Chester,” Lawrence pointed out.

“I know,” Chester agreed. The two continued to drink tea silently for another few minutes. “You know, you have to admire Potter and how he outfoxed us. He is a true Slytherin at heart.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Yup,” Lawrence agreed, thinking about it, as well as thinking how he could grab a few of the sandwiches Chester had out and take them home for dinner.

“He has taken all the money and all the power. You have to respect him for that at least.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Yup.”

“I’ve been thinking on this situation, Lawrence. I think we should send him marriage contracts from our family. He’s a squib so won’t know what to do with all of them. He will eventually make a mistake and sign one, especially if we put a compulsion on them for him to do so.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Yup.”

“Once signed, he will immediately become part of our family. Then all the old rules come into effect and as the elder magical of the family, we will immediately gain control of everything. And soon enough, all the money, all the Goblin-made relics that those beasts are always yammering on about returning… well, the head of Potter’s soon-to-be magical family will control it all.”

Chester finished his tea. “And all they need to do is wait for the opportune time.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Yup.”

“Elf! Bring me parchment and quill!”

**-o0o-**

Harry looked at picture after picture of old crap that he acquired from his chattel. He turned to Sirius and Remus, and asked, “How the hell can we get rid of all this junk?”

“I wish you could give it away, but it’s mostly Goblin-made items you know,” Sirius pointed out.

“You can’t give it away. And you especially can’t give it to the Goblins,” Remus also pointed out.

“Why not?” Harry said, caught off guard by that comment.

“Right of Conquest,” Remus replied. “The Goblins are a warrior race, even to this day. They respect conquest. Even though some or most of the items the Goblins say are still theirs, possibly acquired as a purchase from a now-dead pureblood and then handed down the generations, the simple fact that you conquered the last owners, or to the Goblin-point-of-view, the last people who had possession of the items, makes them yours where they cannot demand you return it. Now once you die, then they will begin their claims that they be returned. Unless of course someone wins them off you before you die.”

“Win you say?” Harry grinned at a thought.

**-o0o-**

Harry, Remus, and Sirius walked up a dirt and rock driveway at a countryside mansion in France. The day was pleasant. Not hot, not cold. They had driven an hour to get there and parked their car on the frequently-used road near the entrance to the estate. The entrance was blocked by an iron gate but was not hard to open.

Several hundred meters from the road, they saw the mansion and how the “path” lead to it as well as around it. They stayed on the path and walked to the back of the manor. Sirius beamed while Harry looked at nearly an acre of space taken up by tables loaded with knives, swords, pikes, shields, statues, pots, pans, dining sets, even a few dozen jewel-encrusted brass knuckles. All fun items. And all Goblin-made.

“Is this all of it?” Harry indicated all the tables.

“No,” Sirius answered. “Only a fifth. We didn’t think you wanted to be at this for more than a day at a time. You can only haggle for so long before you lose your edge.”

“What’s the haggling process again?”

Remus said, “Start with a price. They start with a price as well. They insult you. You insult back. Whoever insults the best wins.”

“Gotcha” Harry clamped his hands together in victory. “Okay. Let’s get this party started.”

All too soon, hordes of Goblins were swarming the estate, all looking for a good deal. And deals there were to be had. A Goblin would pick up an item and take it to the Human behind the table where the cash register sat. There, the negotiations would begin with results sometimes like this:

Goblin: “This trinket amuses me just a little. Not very much, mind you. How much is it?”

Harry: “It’s yours for 5,000G.”

Goblin: “That is an outrage! Swindler! Pitiful excuse for human!”

Harry: “Pitiful? Me?! Your voice annoys me, useless one! Be gone from my market before I have you beaten to within an inch of your worthless life!”

Goblin: “You think you can beat me, a superior Goblin Warrior First Class from the enclave of Ranger in the land of Texas?!”

Harry: “You? A Warrior? You look like a walking turd!”

Goblin: “I may look like a turd, but at least I don’t have really bad hair or something!”

Harry: Fine. “Be that way. You can have that trinket for 4,000G.”

Goblin: “Your poor hair control must be what is giving you such piss-poor negotiation skills, Human! I won’t pay more than 1,000G for it!”

Harry: “1,000?! You insult me, Warrior First-Class Turd-Walker, of Texas Ranger!”

Goblin: “That’s Ranger, Texas, you, uh...”

Harry: “Butt-humpin’ Human?”

Goblin: “Yeah!”

Harry: “Wow. You really told me off. Okay, you win the argument and can have the trinket for 1,000G. I certainly know when I’ve been bested negotiating with you.”

Goblin: “Hah! I did it! I won the argument! I need to find some other stuff here and buy it from you.”

Harry: “Go right ahead, Warrior Turd-Walker.”

That was just one example that played out over and over as Goblins quickly caught on that the Human with the Goblin relics did not know how to negotiate, nor did he really know the prices of the Goblin-made items. Minutes after Harry’s fourth “negotiation”, word spread of his negotiating prowess and the mad dash to claim as much of what was on the tables began.

Goblin after Goblin grabbed this or that. There was name calling (as usual), there was declarations of intents to kill (as usual), there was scratching, hitting, and punching (as usual), there was some stabbing and cutting (as usual), and there was even talk of a mutual non-aggression pact in order to ensure all Goblins there were able to get a fair share of the booty available on the tables present (this was not usual and was soundly defeated by a few dozen blows to the speaker’s head using feet and rocks of all things).

Morning turned to afternoon and nearing dusk that day, the last of the Goblins, whom Harry had unintentionally renamed to Warrior Third Class Blowjob, and never knew that all the names he had used in his “negotiations” would stick as they were names given during a contest with a respected opponent (even if the Human was a poor negotiator), paid his galleons and left. Harry let out a sigh and thought about the next garage sale he was going to have in a few weeks. This one had been rough. The next would be too.

“And how did you do today, Mr. Potter?” inquired his French Gringotts account manager representative.

“Quite well, Account Manager Chainjerker. I sold everything.”

“Indeed. And at quite a profit as well, even though you did lose the verbal negotiations.”

“Hmmm,” Harry reflected. “I think I must work on those skills before the next sale.”

“If I may, Mr. Potter. I am still unclear why you are selling all of your belongings.”

“Mostly, I am just glad to get rid of this stuff.”

“Why is that?”

“It doesn’t go along with my new décor. I have an image to uphold and all.”

Now this was new to the Account Manager. “Explain please.”

“Not everything here today was Goblin-made. But all the pictures, weapons, artisan pieces, relics… all of it represented a bygone era. I like modern things like Jackson Pollock paintings, impressionist artworks, that kind of thing. Not this… classical approach. I’m done with that style.”

“And if you change your mind? You will not be able to re-acquire these items back.”

“Meh. No worries. And it’s not like I’m going to want that Elvis on Black Velvet, or the Dogs Playing Poker paintings back.”

“You are certain? You will not be challenging my clan with a vendetta to reacquire them? I have already gotten several inquiries about them.” The Account Manager patted the two paintings in question with both hands as they leaned next to the table.

“Nah. I’m cool. Take them with my blessings.” He never told the Goblin that he knew where to get more. A lot more.

**-o0o-**

At the start of fiscal year, Gringotts locations around the world opened their doors to their customers, both internal and external. Wizards, witches, squibs and muggles went into the various lobbies intent on business needs, but soon noticed something new. Each lobby had viewing mirrors placed on the ceilings, in corners, on walls. Surprising the wizards and witches who knew no better (which was most of them), an audio voice-over clip played as the visuals showed Goblins in fierce negotiations with a Human wizard.

“…And so, the Human wizard, Harry Potter, Goblin-friend, decided the barter system was the best way to allow the Goblin Nation to win our rightful items back. With his acquiescence, for a fee which he charged the Goblin Nation, as he rightly should have, recording units were placed around his location where he initiated something called a ‘garage sale’. What you are witnessing is real. The participants are not actors but are real Goblins. The negotiations are true and not edited. The final purchases are binding.”

Goblin: “How much is this sword?”

Harry: “Fuck off! You are not worthy of wielding such an impressive sword, you sorry sack of shit.”

“The negotiations went on for several more minutes,” the Goblin voice-over stated, “in which the Goblin rail maintenance worker, Sorry-Sack-of-Shit, won the Sword of Great Stabbing from Harry Potter for the sum of 2,156 galleons, 11 sickles and 5 knuts.”

Wizards and witches alike were enthralled. Goblins were enthralled. So enthralled in fact, that a new business was created in the bank lobby of selling popcorn to those watching. After a Goblin won the item, a camera crew would then interview the winner who often lauded the Human and his fine negotiation skills. In all, the camera crew had enough material from these multiple garage sales that Harry Potter did over several months to last them years without repeating content.

And when they did start playing content over, they learned a new concept: repeat rights!

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
Last chapter Peter Pettigrew was captured and sold to someone at the Triple-H B &B. Should anyone have any idea of what they would like to have happen to Pettigrew, then send them to me. There are only a handful of chapters left. So get those ideas in as soon as you can. As is, I have no idea what to do with Ron. Other than being a self-absorbed prick through most of the series, he really wasn’t an evil guy. I can use some ideas on this too.

Thank you all for reading and leaving comments!


	16. Shafting Voldemort and Albus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albus and Voldie's stories

**Author’s Note:**  
It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

Albus too-many-middle-names Dumbledore was not having a good year, to say it mildly. And it had all started when that fool of a Minister, Cornelius Fudge, had convicted Harry Potter of violating the underage magic law during the summer. Had Harry simply been sent a letter of expulsion then Albus knew he could have worked the system to get Harry reinstated. But that fool had held a public trial in front of the Wizengamot! And worse, that trial had effectively emancipated the boy. The same boy that left the courtroom and went to ground as the muggles would say. He disappeared from the lives of everyone.

The day he arrived at the courtroom for Harry’s trial only to find it empty made him nervous. He was nervous for a young boy who was scared of what his future would now become. Harry had to be found. Magical or not, he had to be controlled so he could meet his destiny.

So Albus had marshalled his forces to search for the poor, unfortunate missing youth. He reasoned that Harry would go to places he was comfortable with, where he knew someone or knew the surrounding. A place where he would feel safe. He never knew that Harry didn’t feel safe anywhere, and didn’t have any place special to go.

His people searched for Harry all over the country, except Sirius and Remus who had run off again. He had no idea where they were and his owls to them were not able to find them. Little did Albus know that his same assumption that Harry was still in Britain applied to Sirius and Remus, and therefore the owls he used did not have international certification ratings, so were unable to leave the country.

He and his people were unable to find Harry and eventually September 1st rolled around. He put his teams into expanding their search for Mr. Potter while he returned to Hogwarts and a new school year.

Except the school year came to an abrupt halt during the beginning of year feast speech when the Goblins came in, kidnapped children and Severus, and then announced the closing of Hogwarts. All done at the behest of Harry Potter. It was too late to save Mr. Potter for his destiny.

After the Goblins had left and the teachers began calming the students down, owl after owl had arrived for each child and adult there. Forms were included with each owl that basically reiterated what the Goblins had stated, and that a copy of the form had been sent to their parent or guardian. Basically they had all been given the magical equivalent of an eviction notice.

Albus had no choice. The teachers got the children to their dormitories and bedded down for the night while he made arrangements for the Hogwarts Express to come back up to Scotland the next day. Some of the choice words the train conductor had used for this change in schedule couldn’t be repeated in polite company. Fortunately, this story is not for polite company and essentially what Nigel Petersen, (squib) train conductor said was, “What the fucking hell did you fuck up this time, you fucking old bastard?”

Anyone that knew Nigel (and, surprisingly, there were a few of these individuals around), knew that he liked to swear as much as he liked to smoke cigarettes. Neither was good for his long term health, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone thought. Especially the fucking old bastard who had sweet-talked his mum into giving up his inheritance she was going to leave him and instead donate it to the Hogwarts Memorial Fund which was where the Headmaster himself would think fondly of those that had come before. Nigel had heard that swindle deal before and had tried to talk him mum (a witch, and batty as hell he knew), but it was too late. She had given the long-bearded fucker everything he was to inherit. And as a squib, the laws were specific as to what legal recourse he had to get the money back. He knew this because he had checked. Basically, the laws stated that if you were a squib, it was okay to be screwed over by a witch or wizard.

Albus knew he was in a bind. Worse, he knew that Mr. Petersen, the train’s engineer and conductor knew it as well. For some reason, Mr. Petersen had some sort of animosity against him, Albus thought. Honestly, what had he ever done to Mr. Petersen? He made a mental note to look into it at a later time, never realizing that the Barbara Schafer Memorial Fund he had appropriated nearly two decades ago rightfully belonged to Marjorie Schafer’s son, Nigel. And that said son took his wife’s name when they married because he did not want to be reminded of his batty mother and her need to look up to the old fucking headmaster son of a bitch. The two men spent many minutes negotiating. It went something like this:

Albus: We have a situation where the children have to be returned to London either tomorrow or the next day at the latest.

Nigel: Uh-huh. Okay. Short notice. Extra space in train. Shifting schedules. Two thousand galleons, you old fucker.

Albus: You normally only charge 500 galleons one way.

Nigel: Short notice, remember. Two thousand.

Albus: But the children…

Nigel: I like kids. I have a couple myself. Fortunately, they ain’t paying. You are. Two thousand.

Albus: Fine. I will authorize a check and by the end of the month…

Nigel: Gold. In advance. Or fuck off.

Albus: I assure you, my good man, that Hogwarts can cover this amount.

Nigel: I’m sure you can. I just don’t like you or trust you. Two thousand. In advance. Fucker.

Albus had no choice but to pay for the train ride for the children as allowing the children to use his floo would quickly exceed 2,000G for the cost of floo powder. This was good news for Nigel who was smart to want payment in advance as Hogwarts quickly ran out of money, leaving creditors wondering how they were to be paid. But for Albus, this was the beginning of the end of the Wizarding world.

**-o0o-**

Once the last of the children were on the Express heading back to London, Albus went back to his office to wait for the Goblin representatives to assume control of the school. He was sure he could convince the Goblin to allow the school to remain open, despite what Mr. Potter was demanding. He felt confident that he and his teachers could give sound reasons why this should be allowed and sway the good Goblins to this cause.

If only the teachers had felt the same way. But no, they had all packed up and left immediately after the students were gone. No matter what he implored of them, they seemed to defer to Filius and his understanding of Goblin culture. And his answer was always the same: get out now or be thrown out when they take charge.

So Albus waited behind his desk. The teachers were gone. The elves were silent. The ghosts were in conference. Hagrid was in France. As the clock in his office struck 7:00pm local, his vision swirled. He blinked it clear and quickly noticed that he was now outside the Hogwarts property gate. Some of his belongings were in several cardboard boxes near him. The rest were scattered around him as if quickly thrown down considering the shape some of them were in could only be best described as broken. As he got up from the cool grass, he noticed an invoice clipped to his beard for 15 sickles. He had been thrown out of the castle once the Goblins had assumed control of the wards. That was what caused the swirling nausea. They had then come into the office, picked him up and collected his belongings and thrown him past the gates. That was the 15 sickles charge.

As he read the invoice and contemplated his next move, the sky unleashed a torrent of rain that Scotland was known for. His cardboard boxes fell apart when he went to collect them.

**-o0o-**

Things went from bad to worse for Albus after that.

He was interrogated by Aurors for his part in Mr. Potter’s scheme to undermine the magical community. He protested any involvement and proclaimed his innocence – neither of which were believed. He was then thrown into a holding cell, his wand woefully out of reach. He was then forgotten about for a week while the Aurors reshuffled their ranks and the ministry was realigned. He would have died in the holding cells, alone, forgotten, had it not been for Fawkes.

No, the phoenix did not break Albus out of jail as that was just not kosher for the flaming bird. Instead, he made sure Albus got fed to keep his strength up. Of course, Fawkes didn’t know anything about his pet human’s dietary needs, so he just took whatever he could find. Usually from the Aurors’ breakroom. It was during a secure investigation of the breakroom to find out who had been stealing all the lunches that four burly Aurors spotted the phoenix flash in, notice the bird snatch whatever lunch it could, notice the phoenix notice them and realize the jig was up, and then flew out, lunch still in its maw. The Aurors chased the bird all the way to the holding cell only to see an old geezer eating their lunch. They opened the cell and proceeded to explain why they thought that was a bad idea – compelling a phoenix to stealing lunches – amid a good beat down.

Had Albus not been locked in that cell for a week without access to food, water, or even a toilet, he might not have looked like a taller Mundungus Fletcher what with his soiled robes, smelly clothes, and all around disheveled look.

Once the Aurors got tired of explaining why swiping lunches was a bad thing with their fists, one of them noticed that this tall Mundungus character looked a little like the Hogwarts Headmaster. They decided to let him sleep it off and release him in the morning.

It was during Albus’ recovery time at St. Mungo’s that he learned of more misfortunes. His house had been repossessed after Abe had taken out a massive loan against it, signed for it as A. Dumbledore, and then allowed the loan to default back to the bank. Whatever funds Albus had left in his vault had been confiscated at that point. He was dead broke.

All his belongings did make their way back to him. Most of them were now broken as well. And what wasn’t broken was torn.

All of his friends wanted nothing to do with him. No power meant no suck-ups currying favor.

All of the people that thought highly of him had more pressing things to worry about, like finding a job and making an income. Helping support an old geezer who couldn’t let Hogwarts school go was a luxury they didn’t have time to afford.

There were more instances of things like this. Month after month went by. Albus managed to get by. Fawkes continued to scavenge for his pet human, but for some reason his pet really didn’t like bird seed or easily found roadkill. Go figure! Fortunately, they lived outside, so Fawkes’ pet could relieve himself whenever he wanted.

It wasn’t until May 3rd, 1996 that Albus had reached the point of no return. He wrote a note and had Fawkes deliver it. Sadly, it was the last time Albus ever saw Fawkes.

**-o0o-**

Albus traveled incognito to the safe zone he had mentioned in the letter to Tom. It was the same half-way house he was staying in as he, temporarily, was a little deficient in funds. Or, more accurately, he traveled incognito out of an establishment, across the street to the coffee establishment, ordered tea, was insulted by the owner (again) for being cheap and to leave all those sugar packets alone instead of stuffing them into your bloody bath robe, thank you, and to get the hell out. Once outside the beverage store, he then made his way back to the half-way house and up to the safe zone, which is what he called the empty room next to his.

He never knew that Fawkes had delivered his letter to Tom who was staying in a similar type of establishment only a few blocks away as he, too, was a little deficient in funds. Tom had managed to scrape by to get the room he had, recalling some of the hard lessons in life he had learned as a lad. Of course, Tom had also never seen Fawkes show up as he was blotto when the phoenix showed up, dropped the note, sniffed the air and flashed away to clear that stench out of his nostrils.

Tom was 13 minutes late to the safe zone, room 206. Albus figured Tom just wanted Albus to wait. In part, he was right with that thought. Tom did want Albus to wait, and 13 was an optimal number of minutes to make him wait. Tom would know. He’d run the arithmantics on it. He didn’t both knocking on the door and just strode right on in.

Albus was sitting on the room’s couch. The room smelled, not that he noticed it as he lost the ability to smell after his week-long stint in the Aurors company. “Thank you for coming, Tom.”

“Can the pleasantries, you old fool. What do you want?” Tom demanded.

Albus frowned as the un-pleasantries. “Thomas, must you be so prejudiced against me?” If only young Tom could see the Light!

Tom sneered. “I am not prejudiced against you, old man. I am free of all prejudices. I hate everyone equally.”

“You hate women too?”

“Women are like elephants. I like to look at them, but I wouldn’t want to own one.”

“I can’t believe you would think that. You were brought into this world by a mother after all.”

“My mother? No doubt exists that all women are crazy; it’s only a question of degree. Or in her case, a question of degrees.”

“Tom, we are facing a dilemma without Mr. Potter here to act as balance. We are both suffering the same thing and that is a lack of support and supporters. We need to get Mr. Potter back where we can control him and his funds.”

Tom thought about that for a moment. “You know,” he started slowly, “it’s morally wrong to allow a sucker to keep his money. After all, you never give a sucker an even break.”

Albus beamed with his grandfather smile. “That’s the spirit, Tom. Why don’t we have something to drink to cement this partnership? Water?”

Tom scoffed, “I never drink water; that’s the stuff that rusts pipes. Besides, drinking water is something I’m afraid would become habit-forming.”

“True,” Albus agreed. “I would offer you milk, but as I recall yours ended up spilled every day you were at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, well, I never cried over spilt milk then, mainly because it was probably poisoned.”

“You truly believed that the children you went to school with would try to poison you?”

“You’re kidding, right? I never met a kid I liked. When I think of all my followers and all their sprogs, all I can think of is the saying: children should neither be seen nor heard from, ever again.”

**-o0o-**

As the two self-important wizards discussed their plans to kidnap young Mr. Potter and return him to a situation that would benefit one or both of the mature wizards, neither had any idea that their meeting was currently being monitored by members of various secret organizations, including the Crown’s MI-5. Apparently, the Queen’s visit to the Ministry of Magic had far-reaching consequences. Psychological profiles had been created for many of the wizarding world’s influential people and the results were staggering in their own right. A new kind of classification had to be created for these influential people. And that designation basically defined how nuts these people actually were.

For instance, China’s Deng Bin Win held only a half-nut classification as he only wanted to take control of his country in order to ensure Pandas would survive well into the next century. His plan was to turn them into vicious carnivores with a high desire for human flesh and a furry body that could withstand bullets and other armaments short of a 500 pounder literally being dropped on their heads – all while employing their cute and camera-friendly faces and non-eating antics to entice humans to come closer.

India’s Prateek Kushwaha also had a half-nut classification as he sought to increase the lifespan of cattle and protect them in all ways possible via magical means. That in and of itself was not a problem. It was the way he went about it that made him dangerous. Apparently, he sought to increase the amount of feces a cow produced in order to make towns and cities drown in it. He was not relegated to a full nut listing as the way Prateek was going about his research was actually decreasing the amount of garbage in his area, so the local magical government was keeping an eye on him for now.

As for Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore, they each had a 2-nut rating. It was bad enough they were both megalomaniacs who thought that magicals should listen to their every word (similar to many politicians), and were willing to waste their follower’s lives in pursuit of this power (not like most politicians, thankfully). But they also thought this entitlement was world-wide and applied to all magicals in all countries.

The operations lead had heard enough and made the call. A signal was given to move in to take the two malcontents down. Three teams had been deployed for this operation. Inside, outside, and external. The team external of the building was authorized to use lethal force if need be. The team outside of the room was to use non-lethal force if possible. The internal team had already deployed their armament earlier following the intelligence gathered by Team Bad-Guy-2 Surveillance when they read the missive the phoenix dropped on Bad-Guy-2 while said target was passed out.

Bad-Guy-1 continued to sit on the stinky couch. Bad-Guy-2 sat opposite him in wooden-chair-missing-one-leg-but-being-held-up-by-some-books. Inside team was given the go-ahead by Outside team which comprised ten head-to-toe black-clad individuals sporting some interesting firearms. Gene Simmons (no relation) opened his door to head to the coffee shop across the street, noticed the individuals (who noticed him right back), his eyes went wide and his door went shut. He wanted nothing to do with that. Outside team would take them down should they exit the room via hallway.

Inside team leader John McMannis nodded to his four men. The dozens of monitors they viewed showed different angles of the room the two unfriendlies were in. When Bad-Guy-1 had entered the room earlier he took out his wand and scanned the room for anyone else. Satisfied that no one else was there, he waited for Bad-Guy-2. That was a limitation of the Bad Guys, John knew. They believed in their own superiority. The Good Guys had already been in the room and had set up monitors in the ceiling corners along with some additional special surprises.

“Targets locked?” John said. He got four affirmatives as the monitors his agents were watching now had red tracking cross-hairs on them, each targeting a different area of the two Bad-Guys. “On my mark. Three-two-one-mark.”

The four agents pressed their nifty buttons and remote air-guns complied with the signal sent and immediately four tranq darts were shot at each unfriendly. All darts were a success in that two hit each unfriendly’s neck, one hit a shoulder, and another hit the “wand hand”.

“Targets hit!” John announced in his microphone. “Outside team, you have a go.”

Outside team leader, Bryan Simpson, waved his hand in the “go” signal to his team. One man broke the door down and the others ran into the room, shooting their own air-guns and hitting the targets with more tranq juice. Usually one or two darts was enough to take a man down, but no one wanted to take any chances. And soon enough each unfriendly was sporting a dozen tranq darts in various parts of their body.

However, what was amazing to all the agents involved was that both unfriendlies were still on their feet. The good news, however, was that neither seemed to be very coherent.

Bad-Guy-1 and Bad-Guy-2 had risen to their feet when the darts initially hit their bodies. They began to feel woozy almost immediately. The additional darts hitting them made them feel woozy, warm, special, and happy all at the same time.

“Get on the ground! Now!” yelled an unhappy voice at the two wonderful wizards.

“Why should I do that? I like standing,” slurred an obviously happy Voldemort who was teetering on his feet.

“On the ground! On the ground! Or we will fire!” yelled more voices.

Bad-Guy-2 blinked a few times at the voices and then looked towards Bad-Guy-1. “I’m not gonna stick around here, Albush,” he mangled the name. “Heh-heh-heh, you hear that? I got your name wrong. Heeeee-heeeee,” he laughed again. Plunk! Plunk! Two darts went into each of his legs.

Bad-Guy-1 swooned on his feet as well. “How was it wrong?” Plunk! Another dart went into his him, this time in his leg.

“Heee-heee! That’s funny, Albush. I’m still gonna leave.” He raised his wand hand up, but forgot to hold onto the wand and it dropped to the floor. He looked at his empty hand and giggled a little more. “I think I’m gonna app, app, appropriate, I mean apparate away!”

He snapped his fingers and one ‘crack’ sound later, he found out why the apparition licensing board took a dim view on those that thought they could drink and apparate.

Leaving parts of your body behind when you apparated was always a bad sign. They usually could be re-attached by a licensed healer, but the price was usually embarrassment and typically those involved made the front page of the daily newspaper. The agents in the room knew that both Bad-Guys could teleport, but did not really understand the significance when Bad-Guy-2 teleported and left behind both of his arms and both of his legs.

At the beginning of the operation to tranquilize to two Bad-Guys, as soon as the first dart had made its egress from the hidden dart gun in the ceiling, Crown wizards activated anti-portkey and anti-apparation wards. While not as strong as those created with runes, they were strong enough to keep either of the Bad-Guys from getting away.

Voldemort was powerful enough that he could have punched through the wards if he had concentrated enough on it. His concentration was muddy at that time and as a consequence he only apparated to the next room. The bathroom to be precise.

“Wheeeee, hah-hah-hah!” the agents in the room heard Bad-Guy-2 laughing from the bathroom. A nod from the lead agent had team members opening the door. Voldemort, legless and armless, was on the toilet. Actually, his head was in the toilet as the rest of him squirmed.

“Hahahahahahaha!” Albush, er… Albus chortled with glee. “That’s funny, Tom. I can do better than that!” His wand already on the floor thanks to a numbed hand with several darts in it, he snapped his fingers.

All too soon, the operations leader was viewing the results of the operations and a breakdown of results by his team leaders. On the monitor, Bryan Simpson talked into a headset with command station, directing who was to do what. The operations leader took the scene in and smiled. In the living room were four legs and four arms. In the bathroom were the two Bad-Guys, both their heads stuck in the loo.

“Lead-1,” he said into his headset. “Why is an agent flushing that toilet over and over?”

“Targets are stuck in loo. We have not been able to extract them as yet. To keep them from drowning, we keep flushing the toilet.”

“You could always turn the water off to the toilet,” the operations leader said.

“We’ll look into it once we get these arms and legs into custody.”

“Confirmed, Lead-1.”

Albus and Tom never heard this exchange. They were too tranq’d up to make sense of anything other than why it was so fun to be in this close proximity to one another in this moist area where the rain went upside down. They both giggled some more. By the time they were extracted, Albus’ beard was soaked through and through, and stained yellow.

**-o0o-**

In a surprisingly short amount of time, the agents collected the wands, arms, and legs and secured them for later investigation. As for the two bodies stuck in a toilet, it would take constant flushing to make sure that the leaking toilet didn’t drown them until they could be wedged out of there. Some of the agents weren’t in a quick hurry to get them out. Especially Diane Coolidge, class of ‘72, a muggleborn on the Exterior team who saw first-hand the prejudices of the magical world and its laughable ministry.

Eventually the two leaders were popped out of the toilet, strapped to a gurney and taken to rooms where they would have to be spoon-fed for the rest of their lives since they weren’t getting any of their arms or feet back. When each woke from their tranq-induced happy place, and realized what had happened, they tried to free themselves using a variety of means which almost always resulted in them wiggling all around their bed since they had no leverage.

When Voldy, in a vain effort to get the guards to “kill” him, sneered that he would return to life once he was killed, well – that sparked a flurry of questions, some new tranq-juice that got the not-quite man talking and revealing where he stored his containers. They cross-referenced his answers with a juiced up Albus who then speculated that young Harry was the 7th horcrux, even if it was accidental. Checking with counterparts in Egypt, they found countermeasures to what Bad-Guy-2 did and enacted them, ensuring the rotter’s soul would go onto its next reward when he bit the bucket.

**-o0o-**

**June 3rd**

“Look, Dobby, all I’m saying is that giving an owl the ability to vaporize an adult dragon to a crisp would be really cool, but do we really need to do…”

“Mr. Potter?” a feminine voice said to a waiting Harry Potter. She noticed that he stood in anticipation, she noticed. Anticipation for trouble, or something else she was not sure of.

They were in the international boarding area at Heathrow. Harry had gotten off the plane last, slowly followed the crowd until they were all well ahead of him and then stopped prior to merging with the rest of the airport’s population once he noticed someone else was approaching him. Dobby, she noticed, was a house elf and therefore not visible to muggles when they didn’t want to be.

“Mrs. Black?” he replied. She nodded slightly. “Not your real name, I take it?”

“No. Not even close,” she stopped just outside of arm’s reach of him. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“You’re not ICW. You actually sent a polite request instead of just a summons.” She remained silent. “What do you need from me?”

“Need, Mr. Potter? Nothing. I am here to supply you with information.”

“What is this information going to cost me?”

“Nothing, Mr. Potter. The information is yours should you want it. Use it or not. That is your business. Although I suggest you may want to view at least one part of it if only for your magical health.”

“Who are you with, Mrs. Black?” Harry could not really get a bead on this woman who looked to be several decades older than him.

“I work for MI-5, Mr. Potter. At least today I do.”

“Will I like this information, Mrs. Black?”

“Most of it you will. Some you may not.”

“Very well. How do you want to proceed?”

Mrs. Black reached into her coat pocket and pulled a small envelope out. In a blink of an eye she had her wand out and tapped it gently and it grew to a standard sized manila envelope that contained more than a few pieces of paper. She held it out. “Here is all the information we can give you. It is not all the information we have, but it is pertinent to you. Do you know what a horcrux is?”

He didn’t and she explained it and all that had happened to Dumbledore and Riddle to him. Inside the packet, were several photos of the two once-powerful wizards soaking their heads in the toilet, along with their painful removal from said toilet. Harry enjoyed those photos.

“Mr. Riddle,” Mrs. Black continued, “performed a foul ritual near you when you were only an infant. He may or may not have intended to make you a horcrux.” She went on to explain what that was, how many Riddle had, how they were collected and have since been neutralized, and how Harry had the last one left in his scar. She was right; that last bit of news was not something that he had wanted to hear, but had needed to hear it none-the-less.

“You have a soul fragment leeching your magic and possibly your life from behind that scar. Should you wish to have it removed, contact the Gringotts branch in Egypt. Their curse-breakers are adept at removing soul fragments.”

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?”

“No, Mr. Potter. My superiors wanted me to tell you that we have no say in your decision. You are still a British citizen. You also got shafted by your magical government officials. You’re not the only one. Good luck.”

Mrs. Black turned and left Harry alone to contemplate the information. Harry would soon exit the gangway to the terminal and get on another flight out of England. Mrs. Black hoped that Mr. Potter had the soul fragment removed sooner rather than later. What was left unsaid was that Gringotts had records of others in history who had been living soul containers and had been corrupted by the soul shards over the years. She would hate to see Mr. Potter on a tranq-diet like the other two wizards.

**-o0o-**

Fawkes delivered the note his pet had asked be taken to the evil meanie months earlier. He hadn’t liked the evil meanie at all. And now that his pet wanted to be friends with the evil meanie just mean that Fawkes had to let his pet soar on his own. After all, if he loved his pet, he would let him go free and see if that love was returned with his pet returning to him.

Unfortunately, Albus never returned. Mostly because he had no arms or legs, but also that he never thought to call for Fawkes as the orderlies had taken to duck taping his mouth shut to get him to shut the hell up about destroying the greater good!

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
It always rankled my twisted sense of humor that Riddle and Dumbledore seem to get away with anything they want until the very end. Then once they are found out, action happens and they are killed. It seems to me that when this scenario happens, these jerks get off too easy. So this chapter was my response to them getting some much needed doses of getting hosed for years if not decades to come.

I’ll give a special shout-out to the first reader that can identify the Easter eggs here.


	17. Shafting the ICW… again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hitting the ICW again

**Author’s Note:**  
This was a fun chapter to write. Mostly because I can see parallels with the world at large now. I saw the movie, The Big Short, which partly inspired the character of the ICW asshole you will be meeting here.

It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

**June 13th**

Harry relaxed and read a paper while drinking a soda (something he never had the opportunity to do before last summer’s expulsion). He sat at a small table with a view of the water and all the yachts in Monte Carlo’s harbor. He was actually glad to be there. It was a deal set up with his godfather that he could go there once the de-horcruxification happened. That very painful process had happened just four days earlier. He was now the proud owner of a one-soul body.

Padfoot had brought him to Monte Carlo the day after the procedure and checked them into the most expensive hotel they could find, which considering where they were, wasn’t that hard to find. It was almost as if the hotel owners prided themselves on being more expensive than their neighbors while giving their guests the exact same amenities. Harry had been cooped up in a room in the penthouse the first day with some garbage that Padfoot had tried to con him into believing that it was for his own health. Yeah, right. Lousy dog went out that night and picked up a couple girls to spend the night with. And didn’t send one to his room at all.

Of course, the fact that his entire body reeked of an evil stink that smelled suspiciously like Aunt Petunia didn’t help matters, but the Goblin healer attending him every 20 minutes to make sure he was still breathing (meaning, the Goblin would get paid) or dead (meaning the Goblin would get paid less) would have put a crimp on his style anyway. So he put up with the stink that day and the next morning it was mostly gone. The Goblin healer wasn’t gone however until much later in the day.

The morning after that (today) he was stink-free and ready to resume living. Harry left Padfoot to sleep it off, or in this case, let Padfoot’s girlfriends sleep it off while laying on top of Padfoot who was strapped to the bed (that would teach the old dog the importance of making sure his godson had something to do while stuck in a room with a door warded not to open, and not just left to ponder evil fates for his godfather while a Goblin showed up every 20 minutes to check his vitals and ask the same question: ‘Are you dead yet?’). Harry opted to skip breakfast inside the hotel and picked the current eatery where he was enjoying brunch. If it was anything this last year had taught him, eating outside was much more preferable than inside.

**-o0o-**

On the other side of the street from the café, and more importantly, out of Harry Potter’s line of sight, two people floo’d into the backroom of a storefront. The establishment was an investment house and did not stand out in any way. That was intentional.

The first person to step out of the fireplace was a man of refinement in his mid-30s. He wore a crisp business suit with a vest and a tie all that matched. His posture said sophistication and his clothes screamed money. Hair neatly trimmed, clean shaven, fingernails trimmed. All of that indicated he paid attention to his appearance.

The second person out of the fireplace was a woman in her late 20s. Her hair stylishly done, her green dress accented her form. Her knee-high boots were made to entice the eye to start low and go up to the end of the knee where her dress almost hit, allowing the eye to keep going up. It was an arousal effect she enjoyed using on men. Sometimes, even on her traveling companion.

An attendant was on hand to clean the soot off their clothes and more importantly, their hair. Once done, he handed each omnioculars. They viewed the content first. It showed Harry Potter sitting at the table and ordering brunch.

“When was this taken?” the man said in clean English even if with a slight European accent.

“Twenty-two minutes ago, sir,” the attendant replied.

“Where is the other footage?” the woman inquired, her voice containing just enough of a French accent to find it appealing.

“There is none, ma’am. He only left the hotel this morning. He has not been seen since he and his godfather arrived two days ago.”

“Where is he now?” she followed up.

“Still at the café across the street, ma’am.”

The two newly arrived people moved to the storefront window and saw their target: Harry Potter. He was eating a croissant.

“There he is. He’s alone, like our informant said he would be,” the man said to the woman.

She took a better look at Harry. “He’s a boy. I thought you said we were to engage a man.”

“He’s emancipated. He’s a man in the court of law. Any way you look at it, this shouldn’t be too hard.”

She straightened herself. “Very well. This shouldn’t be too hard or take too long. I have better things to do than take money from a little boy.”

Her companion also straightened his clothes a little more. “Are you ready?”

“Oui. Let’s get this over with.”

“Agreed. Sooner it is over, sooner we can get back to Zurich.”

“And our pool.”

“Yes, my dear. And to our pool.”

They exited the store on an intercept course with Harry.

**-o0o-**

Harry enjoyed reading the comic strips in the newspaper. That Garfield and his penchant for lasagna. Ha! And that Lucy taking the football away from Charlie when he went to kick it. Priceless! Where did those writers come up with these things?

The man and woman on an intercept course with Harry split to take a chair on each side of him. The idea was to shock him with their sudden appearance and keep him off balance with having to swivel his head to look at whoever was talking.

Harry put his glass of soda up to his lips and took a long sip. He had just started on reading Dilbert and had to admit to himself he didn’t get the office inferences. A chair at his table scraped the floor as it was moved. From his left peripheral vision, Harry saw a woman smiling as she moved the chair out from its resting spot by his table. As she went to sit down, he heard another chair scrape the concrete floor. Turning his head, he saw the face of a man who was in the process of sitting. Ppwwwssshhhh! He shot the soda still in his mouth all over the poor unfortunate man as he had just sat down and looked at Harry.

“Uh, sorry about that,” Harry apologized. “You kind of look like my cousin, Dudley. Only you’re not as fat. Besides, I usually don’t have to worry about people joining my table unannounced, or uninvited. So, get lost.”

“Mr. Potter?” the representative said with a hint of a German accent as he looked down at his business jacket in more than a little disgust.

“Maybe,” Harry replied before sipping his cola again.

The man took a napkin from another table and used it to clean his suit as best he could. He looked at Harry while dabbing his jacket dry and said, “My name is Boris Schmitt. This is Yvette Esqre.”

“Let me guess. ICW?”

“Why, yes. How did you know?”

“You knew who I was. Look, do yourself a favor and go fuck off. Or better yet, go fuck your playmate here. Oh, and now I’m not sorry about spraying you with my soda.”

“Mr. Potter,” Boris started. “Harry…”

“If you want to ever talk with me, use proper titles. Or piss off. Asshole.”

Boris looked contrite. “My apologies, Mr. Potter. I was attempting to create a sense of empathy with you as I am a passionate man and what is happening around the world is terrible for so many people. And I am passionate to help them.”

“How so?” Harry said flatly.

“When you removed your money during that British fiasco, it initially affected the British economy. Less money being spent meant less products being bought. Since then, this has now started to impact other countries. They cannot purchase what they need as the English are no longer buying their products. Since this entire affair started last September, Germany, France, China and the Japanese magicals have been hit hard.”

“Hit hard how?” Harry used the same tone as before.

Boris used his hands to magnify his words. “Wealthy families are being wiped out having to repay loans to all the Gringotts banks along with the Mueller banks and the Kinsha banks.”

“Too fucking bad for them.”

“I understand your reasoning, Mr. Potter. But to be bitter against individuals you do not know? How is that helping your position? For example, the Loonian family in China has lost 23 percent of their available funds over the last half year and have started to lay their workers off.” Boris didn’t bother to mention that the Loonian family comprised of two parents and one daughter as their only worker, and that said daughter had just been married off.

“Uh-huh,” Harry said sarcastically, not believing any of this since his well-honed (by years of exposure to Dudley and his gang) bullshit detector was going off.

Boris pressed on. “But if you were to put your chattel’s funds back into circulation, then all those jobs, all those workers, all those families could be saved. And you would be the one doing it. You would be doing the right thing for the right reason.”

“Uh-huh. What about my having already converted all magical funds to muggle funds?”

It was working, he thought. “Not to worry, Mr. Potter. There is a special provision to transfer them back to magical funds.” Again, Boris didn’t think Mr. Potter needed to know that a loss on the funds would still happen, but hey, at least the funds would be back in circulation and Boris would get his cut as part of the financial retrieval squad.

“Please, Mr. Potter, will you not do this?” Yvette pleaded with a soft blinking of her eyes.

“This can be done easily and even right here. Right now if you like,” Boris pressed on.

“Uh-huh,” Harry’s tone did not waver.

“The ICW has created a contract, already signed in good faith by myself as a duly noted representative of the ICW which gives me carte blanche to move the funds from your account to this special ICW account that will be used to get Britain’s economy, and by extension the world’s economy moving again. Just think of it: all those poor, destitute people put out of work when the money wasn’t there can now all be rehired, earn pay, and support their families.

“And all we need you to do is fill out your account information where your funds are stored and counter-sign it. That’s it. Then it will be magically moved. It’s that easy.” Yeah, thought Boris. It will be easily moved to Zurich and into a special fund set up to manage Britain’s economy and get it moving, not allowing those idiots any chance to screw it up again.

Harry took a cursory once-over on the contract. It wasn’t hard because it wasn’t long. It was straight and to the point. It said that the signer was giving over all the funds in the designated account to be used by the ICW as they saw fit. There was a yellow flashing sticky with a smiley face next to where he would put the originating account in, the designation account already filled out, and a blinking flashing star next to where he was to put his signature.

Harry looked Boris in the eye. “You have got to be fucking kidding me here. Why would I want to sign this piece of shit?”

Boris’ composure didn’t as much as twitch. “Mr. Potter, my associate Yvette is directly involved with your chattel’s funds,” he indicated Harry to look at his associate while thinking that her involvement was getting this money recovered, and nothing more.

Harry turned towards Yvette who smiled a dazzling smile and then a wave of affection ran through him. He wanted her. He needed to have her. Her Veela allure had been kicked into high gear. Nearby, a waiter dropped his tray containing several empty plates and glasses to stare at Yvette. The man he dropped the plates and glassware on didn’t notice as he too was ogling Yvette.

“Harry?” Yvette said his name musically.

Harry’s eyes opened fully. “Yes?”

She leaned closer to him and practically whispered, “I need you to fill out the form for me, my love. If you do that, then you and I will have the time of our lives. You will do that for me, will you not, my love?”

Harry, she could see, was entrapped in her allure. Just like all men, and let’s face it, all boys his age too. He had the same look on his face: that shocked look like he didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t much information to review on Mr. Potter before arriving in this city today, but she knew enough to make him putty in her hands, just like any other man.

“You want me to fill the form out and that would make you happy?”

“Yes, my love,” Yvette was nearly kissing him.

“Okay. Where’s a pen?”

“Here. Use mine,” Boris suggested, handing over a fancy pen.

“Okay.” Harry filled in the account number and signed the contract. It flashed momentarily before vanishing to begin enforcement of its directives.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. We won’t forget this,” Boris said, getting up. “We do appreciate you doing the right thing.” Like giving us your money, he thought.

Yvette also rose. “Thank you, Harry, for a good time. It was so good, I felt like I had the time of my life.” A smirk formed on those red lips.

“That’s it? You’re not sticking around? My godfather gets more action than me?”

“Don’t be boorish, Mr. Potter. It is unbecoming,” she retorted, still smirking while sliding her arm around Boris’ elbow as they left the café.

“Tease!” Harry yelled behind them.

Without turning around, Yvette flipped him the bird from behind her back as the two ICW goons returned to the storefront they came from.

Harry composed himself as a waiter approached.

“Sir? Will you be needing anything else?”

“Yes. I would like a new cup of tea and a cup of black coffee for a friend of mine.” The waiter returned a minute later with the asked for beverages.

Much like his last ICW encounter, a few minutes later a Goblin showed up and took the proffered coffee. Hey, free was still free.

“Did you enjoy the performance?” Harry said after the Goblin took a few hearty swigs of the steaming mug.

“Oh yes. They believed using a Veela to entice you to fill out that form was justifiable. It wasn’t. It is banned in 62 separate treaties, all of which the ICW recognizes.”

Harry snorted. “Figures. Joe Public can’t use that tactic since it is unfair, but the ICW can use it just fine apparently. Fucking hypocrites.”

“True. Does this cup of coffee come with free refills?”

“How much did those ICW assholes get? And yes, you can have free refills. You should swipe the sugar packets while you’re at it.”

“I checked with the bank. Every last knut was transferred as soon as you signed that form. It was crafty in a way.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah, I hadn’t expected them to have a prepared contract in hand. Or to use a Veela to allure me into filling it out. I mean, I expected a Veela to do something, but I hadn’t figured on that. I didn’t know what to say when she was alluring me to sign that money away.”

“True, Mr. Potter. I have not heard of an instance of Veela-entrapment happening in the magical world in centuries. As for your situation, since they didn’t stipulate the originating account as they didn’t know it, all you had to do was fill that in and sign. I’m actually surprised that you knew the account number and had access to it.”

Harry smiled. “It pays that Sirius was still listed as the Black Family head and as such had access to the Wizengamot master account that all others are child members of.”

“True again,” the Goblin replied. “And once you, as a listed of-age Heir signed that contract with that account listed, then all funds from the Wizengamot transferred from Britain to Zurich, and into the ICW account. I must say, the legal repercussions from their theft of an ICW member nation will have ramifications for years to come.”

Harry upped his grin from jovial to downright evil. “I know! I can’t wait for the papers to run with that story. If only there were a convenient reporter present to witness this theft.”

A tall, more salt than pepper man appeared at their table. “Bonjour, Mr. Potter. I am Johan Kvitt of the Northern European News Agency. I just happened to be having an early lunch at this café on a whim and witnessed everything; wink, wink. May I get a statement from you? I’m sure all countries will want to know how the ICW representatives are going around trying to swindle funds from their member nations. And, Mr. Goblin, would you know of which treaties those ICW operatives just violated? I wouldn’t want to miss listing those as well.”

“That was convenient,” Harry winked at the Goblin.

“Indeed.”

Harry had a light-bulb moment. “And did you notice? I was triple-birded!”

“I don’t understand the reference,” the Goblin said.

“Neither do I,” Johan admitted.

“It’s simple: a bird who can turn into a bird gave me the bird. See?”

“That’s… an interesting way of putting it. I’m glad I had my camera ready to snap the picture of her leaving and flipping you the bird.”

“Me too!”

**-o0o-**

“Dobby?”

“Yes, great Master Harry?”

“You have a go on project Owl.”

“Excellent! Bwah-hah-hah!”

“More hah-hahhing there, my apprentice,” Harry smirked.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**

You have not seen the last of Boris and Yvette. They shall return. Several questions have come up about any shafting to be done on the Greengrass or Davis families. I’m not sure if they were dark or neutral. Depending on the author and story, they could be dark, neutral, or even light. Who knows what they were. In any event, I have not included them for shafting.


	18. Shafting Ron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wants to help Ron

**Author’s Note** :  
It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

**April 1996:**

“Fred?” George nudged his brother at the table. “I think someone sent us an owl.”

“Really?” Fred replied, looking up from the paper. “We get to keep the owl?”

“Dunno. Maybe we should ask?”

“I suppose. Oi. Owl. Are you ours now?”

The gray owl looked down its beak at the two berks and precked a response that basically said, “Not in your lifetime, bozos!” The owl stuck out its foot to indicate the attached missive.

Fred unattached the letter, and the owl pecked his hand for being so rough before flying off. While Fred looked to stop the flow of blood from the back of his hand (not realizing the benefits of rubbing some dirt in it as instructed by many coaches in many schools across the world), George read the letter.

“‘Dear Mr. Weasleys,’” George started. “Guess that means us. ‘Congratulations on taking and passing your NEWTs early. It has been over 200 years since the last set of twins accomplished this feat. As such, the Twin Worldwide Improvement Testing Society has recognized your achievements and have awarded you a free 2-day all-expense paid trip to Brussels, Belgium where you will be presented with a crate of chocolate of your choice. We await your confirmation of this award. Please sign below should you wish to accept, and select a date to travel from the list of available dates below.’”

“Sounds interesting,” Fred replied, washing the owl venom out of the back of his hand. Bloody owls. “Want to go?”

“Absolutely. Beats staying around here and being put to work by mother,” George replied.

“You know she is going to want to come with us, right?”

“Absolutely. So… plan ‘A’ then?”

Fred nodded agreement. “Right, my slightly uglier brother. We tell mum and dad nothing about this trip and instead tell them we are going to take this weekend to spend some time with Justin, and his brother Sean to see about finding a job.”

“Right. And if that doesn’t work, we lie our asses off saying we were really going to try to get Angelina and Alicia alone in Shell Cottage for a weekend of romance.”

George and Fred circled the dates they wanted to do the free trip on (the upcoming weekend dates actually) and signed the paper. The contract flashed and moments later another owl arrived with additional details for the trip.

Two days later, they headed for the Portkey Transit Site, took the proffered rope with the other international travelers and were whisked away to Brussels. At customs, the agent looking through their bags tsked in disapproval.

“What is it, sir? We do not have proscribed items,” Fred said.

“You don’t. But these other prank items? You only have 20 total in both bags? That shows a serious lack of attention to the craft. You will need more if you want to remain relevant, son. Enjoy your stay in Belgium.”

The twins left the bus station portkey arrival point and hailed a cab. Twenty minutes later they were walking into Zaabär. The manager escorted them a back room where he presented them a crate of Chocolat Noir à Casser, Schokocaff, and Blinis. The manager shrunk the crate down to a shoe box size, handed it to the twins, and then presented them a sealed letter.

They opened the letter, read its contents and smiled. The quickly grabbed another cab, and half an hour later they walked into the exclusive restaurant, Le Restaurant Exclusif Vous Baise, where they met a bald maître d’ named Joseph Goossens. Joseph looked at the two youths wearing ruffled clothes and carrying a shoe box. As expected, Joseph indicated for Yorg and Bork, his two Russian former-KGB field agents turned bouncers to throw the twin ruffians out. Joseph was not one to give handouts to the poor or homeless.

George held the box of chocolate, so it was Fred who whipped out the envelope and letter. He handed it over to the bald Joseph who stopped the bouncers from fulfilling their life’s work: namely, throwing people to the ground. To the hard ground where bones would break. Letter read, Joseph escorted the twin terrors to a private room.

Inside they met an individual with somewhat fairly tamed hair: Harry Potter. Older… maybe. Wiser… maybe. Richer than they were… certainly.

“Figured that invite was from you, Mr. Gracious Enough To Buy Us Lunch Harry Potter,” Fred smiled, shaking Harry’s hand.

Harry smiled and had them sit at the table. “What took you TWITS so long to figure it out?”

“Yeah, yeah,” George sat. “We should have read the letter more carefully. Chocolate?” George motioned to his shoe box sized case.

“Nah. I’m good. Sirius throws that stuff at me all the time.”

“Any good then?” George looked at one of the chocolates inside the box.

“Nah. His aim is awful these days. Never hits me. He usually hits the girls in the room. His aim’s probably been affected by the STDs he’s acquired.”

Fred’s eyes widened. “Whoa. Normally I would say that is T-M-I, but Harry, you’ve got to know: there’s a potion for that.”

“For what?”

“For any of the STDs out there,” George replied. “Didn’t you cover that in… oh, wait. Fifth year. Yeah, it would have been covered this year for you.”

“You know, Remus said something about potions and STDs. But they don’t really work when it is a magical STD.”

“Harry, even if a witch was to give Sirius…” Fred started.

“Fred. A magical STD that can’t be cured. One that must run its course. With girls who are magical. And the treatment course is more sex with said girls? Until the burning intensifies and a rebirth is triggered? Get my drift?”

“I know there’s a potion I’ve heard… wait! Magical girls? As in plural? Women that are inherently magical?” George’s mouth hung open.

“Yep.”

“That dog!” Fred grinned.

“Yep.”

“You pulling our leg, Harry?” George grinned.

“Would I do that?”

“In a heartbeat. And you know it.”

“Yeah, I would. But no, Sirius’ plight is his own doing. Give it a few more months and he’ll be fine. Anyway, I need your help.”

“Shoot,” George popped out.

“You know what happened last September 1st and all the chattel. Long story short here: I acquired money, property, useless junk, and investments along with the chattel. I’m still getting rid of the useless junk, and the liquid assets I converted to muggle funds and have put it all to work. The properties are being held for the time being. However, it is some of the investments that I need your help.”

“Talk to us, young Harry who needs the help of his elders,” Fred patted Harry’s head.

“Some of the investments I acquired need to remain in England and be managed or given to someone who lives in England. The problem I have is that if I show back up in England, I will be arrested, or worse. As you can surmise, I don’t want that.”

“What do you need from us, Harry?” George asked.

“I want to send business your way. I’ll be a private investor and you be the front end. Interested?”

Fred and George looked at one another. Back to Harry, Fred said, “And what is in it for us?”

It took some finagling and aggressive haggling, but Harry managed to get the twins to accept a block in New Diagon which would allow them to have a joke shop, a job shop, a research facility, and a warehouse. They did mention a research idea to Harry and as soon as the ink was dry on the contract for the twins to take the block, Harry sent them all the medieval torture devices he had acquired from his chattels’ homes which they promptly put in their warehouse inside that block.

Being the businessmen they were, as well as the truly demonic pranksters others knew them to be, the medieval torture warehouse would later be converted to a ‘recently uncovered medieval torture facility used by the Church back in the days of witch burnings’. The tourists loved it. Especially when Fred and George hired some impoverished purebloods to act as the live mannequins on the devices who would groan, bleed, and scare the kids the tourists brought with them. Fortunately, one of the first potions that George and Fred ever managed to successfully brew on their own and in mass quantities was the Blood Replenisher, which was good since they would find they would need it more than ever with the Medieval Torture– See How It All Worked Museum.

However, back in Belgium, Harry began the next bit of business. Fred and George would have a private backer and Harry would get a piece of the action. But it was the research facility that Harry wanted some assistance with and was willing to cover the entire expense. He wanted them to create a rat poison. A poison he would outline later.

“Guys, I also want to help out the rest of the Weasley family. Let’s start with Ron.”

“You want to help Ron? Why?” Fred inquired.

“I ask myself that as well. I’ve always thought of Ron as an irritating, fart-crazy, fucking shit-head bastard brother. What do you think he would accept from me?”

“Not money. Whatever you do, don’t give him any money,” George instructed.

“Yeah, he spends it as fast as he gets it. Okay, how about this: I swing it so that Ron gets a Quidditch position in one of the South America teams.”

Fred shook his head. “Won’t work. Ron won’t like the food. Too spicy. I’ve tried it. But Ron being Ron, though, will still shove all the food he can into his stomach. He may be okay for one or two games, but eventually his stomach will get upset with him, when he’s in a game. This will cause him to fall off his broom one day and into the lakes they play over where he will be eaten alive by the piranha they keep stocked in those lakes. Those South American’s are crazy for Quidditch down there.”

“Okay. Idea #2. How about I get Ron a role with the Cannons? Maybe as a coach until he’s older and bigger and can try out for a spot.”

Now George shook his head. “Well, I admit that Ron does have some sound play strategies, but I don’t see it working for this reason. Ron wants everyone to be as perfect as his wishful thinking says they should be. This means he will be frustrated by the third-rate players the Cannons employ who would try to pull them off and fail.”

“Yeah, I can see him going bonkers from that. Maybe he’d even get even create crazier and better plays for his team, but they players would still suck and still lose.”

“True,” George agreed. “And to make matters worse, I could see the rest of the teams sending representatives to his games to copy his plays for their use even though the Cannons never win. And since he would never, ever leave the Cannons, he would never accept any coaching offers from other teams.”

“Yeah, that would really make his life suck. We’ll keep that as a backup option. Okay: idea #3. How about we get Ron into the spider collecting business. There is an aggressive breeding program among the acromantulas in the Triple-F near the Triple-H B&B.”

“What’s the Triple-F? I know what the Triple-H is,” Fred inquired.

“Fucking Forbidden Forest. The spiders have some weird idea that if they attack Triple-H over and over, they will eventually win a prize. What’s the prize, you’re thinking? No idea. I didn’t start that rumor. Acromantulas are just fucking crazy. Anyway, those spiders are taking daily losses. Ron could get a job picking up the pieces, so to speak. The ones the spiders leave behind when they retreat.”

Fred laughed. “Oh, that’s something I’d love to see. Ron’s life would end up being that he eventually marries that girl who is giving him the goo-goo eyes, Lavender Brown, stay home in the daytime and then go spider hunting, or piece-of-spider picking up near Triple-H at night…”

George cut him off. “Nah, he’s too much of a lazy sod for that. All he ever wants is to copy his homework off Hermione and the only work he puts in is whatever effort he has to exert both eating and playing chess.”

Harry snapped his fingers. “Speaking of chess, here’s idea #4. Say Ron gets sponsored to go to some of those chess tournaments around the world.”

George shook his head again. “Yeah, but considering how he eats, I wouldn’t put it past him to get to the finals but then fall ill from food poisoning or something and settle for second place again and again. And knowing second place would only just cover his medical expenses and hotel expenses, I’m not sure it would leave enough to cover his eating tab. That boy can put it away.”

“Man, who thought finding a way to help that dumb shit would be so fucking hard? Fine: Idea #5. How about getting Ron a house elf to help with all food production?”

“Not a good idea,” Fred shot the idea down. “Ron will work that house elf to death. That’s if Ron doesn’t drive it crazy first. See, when a house elf works too hard, they tend to change. They go a little crazy. And if the elf is tied to Ron’s magical core, then that elf working as hard as it would might start leeching some of Ron’s tendencies into itself. The elf might get an eating disorder, or might take over Ron’s spot on the couch and order Ron to the kitchen to make it food, punishing Ron if he ate any of it. That would not do Ron any good. And who knows, Ron might take to buttering up the elf in order to eat and I shiver to see where that would lead.”

“You sure I can’t give that bastard any money? We can get Ron to take it if I say that since I’m considered a squib in England, he had to take some of my galleons since the UK Ministry says I’m not entitled to that money.”

“Nah. Ron’s a berk, but he won’t take charity unless it is hidden from him,” George said. “And even if you gave him money, he’s won’t be able to hold onto it. He is a chump when it comes to cash. He’d spend it as fast as he gets it. And he’d probably spend it on something Chudley Cannon. You may not realize it, but he is one of their main sponsors.”

“Wait. What?”

“Yeah,” George continued, “it’s one of the Weasley family articles of shame. When Ron was 7 years old, he signed a binding contract with the Cannons that a percentage of all money he made would go to that team. Any wages he gets, any money he inherits will be taxed first by the government first and then the remainder has 62% confiscated for the Cannons. And what does he get out of it?”

“I’ll tell you what he gets,” Fred continued next. “The buffoon gets free posters and playbooks. The same posters and playbooks that no one else in the league wants to buy, so it is a win-win situation for the team. So even if for some reason you could get him on the Cannons team as a Keeper, the best thing for Ron would be for him to be forced to sit out every game for one reason or another. If that happened, then he would make less salary to the point that the garnishing of his wages would still allow him to live, even if just barely.”

“I’m surprised Ron does not get psychotically angry every time he sees the color orange since he knows he can’t earn a proper wage because of that foolish decision when he was 7 years old.

Fred shrugged his shoulder. “Oh, it gets better than that. He loved the Cannons from age 4 when Dad took him to see a match. The orange matched his hair, you know? Years later he agrees to the wage-take plan of the Cannons. He was the only one stupid enough to do it. He gets crap from that team like we said. He also has the option to create and run the Cannons Hall of Fame.

“I didn’t know they had one.”

“No one knows since Ron hasn’t put it together,” Fred replied. “Not like it will be hard since they have no good players and haven’t since they were incorporated to the league two centuries ago. We think Ron plans to put the Hall of Fame in his room. But that team simply put just does not win. And if they don’t win, no one will ever bang down the door to see that Hall of Fame.”

“Marry into money?” Harry grasped at a straw.

“Possible,” George responded. “But Ron is still a berk and stupid as a rock. Think on it: if he married a woman, in order for her funds not to disappear down the Cannons pit, she would need to be as bossy as our mother, and strong-willed as Hermione. And even if that were to happen, and Ron would be happy enough to get married, how long do you think they would stay married? Have you seen his atrocious table manners? You’ve shared the dorm with him for a few years. You think a wife wants to smell that every morning? Then, should they divorce, he will get a settlement. Or should we say, the Cannons will get the settlement.”

“Really? It’s that bad? Hmmm. I need to think on this.”

A salt shaker on the table began flickering blue.

Harry’s eyes bulged. “Oh shit, I’ve got to get going. I have a plane to catch. Look, lunch is paid for, so eat everything you can and take home anything you want. My accountant team will be in touch on Monday so you can start work with your block in New Diagon. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. We’ll talk about the rest of the Weasley family then. Think of where I can help them out. Meanwhile, enjoy your stay.”

Harry took off quickly.

The boys looked around the room after Harry left, amazed at all the food, treats, and erotic chocolate sculptures in the room.

“Waste not…” George started.

“Want not,” Fred finished. “Open the chocolate box and I’ll get to work shrinking everything.”

Half an hour later they left the room with their box of chocolate under an arm and smirks on their faces. Joseph did not like those two miscreants, but the man who rented the room paid a hefty fee, in advance. Joseph would later have to bill the young man’s accounting team for the room’s artwork that went missing. Along with the tables, chairs, draperies, kitchenware, and flooring.

When Harry told the twins to take what they wanted, they took him at his word. Harry would later smirk at their prank, feeling the boys were justified after what happened to them later on that same trip when Harry’s prank kicked in.

As is, the boys went to their hotel intending to check in for the rest of the trip prior to heading back to England. Harry had other ideas, however, and a tour organizer was waiting for their arrival. She introduced herself to them, and added them to a private trip she was driving them to. She drove them to a house of ill repute where they were paired up with some former blond Swedish backpacking girls. The girls sidled up to the twins and said they wanted to introduce the guys to another interpretation of god. Simply put, they got laid. It was magical in one sense for them. Oh wow, was it ever. However, it wasn’t magical in another sense as they both needed a series of potions when they got back home. Potions they didn’t dare let their mother know about, the prude that she was.

**-o0o-**

Weeks later, Harry again contacted the twins. This time, by firecall. Harry’s first question was how the business was coming along.

“Harry, I have to say, I’m glad you strong-armed my ugly brother and I into taking that block off your hands. Turns out we’re going to need it.”

“What do you mean?”

Fred pushed his uglier brother out of the way. “It turns out the business model for our joke shop was based on a lot of magical people coming to Diagon Alley for shopping. You haven’t seen New Diagon these days, but there’s not that many people buying things here that are magical.”

George pushed his uglier brother out of the way and resumed his place in front of the fire. “But good news is that we have opened an Employment Agency here. That is bringing in revenue while ugly over there and I retool our prank items to be acceptable by muggle standards and not violate the Secrecy statute.”

Fred joined his ugly brother and the two of them conversed with Harry. “The research lab is under way. It should be ready in a few weeks. The warehouse space we have an idea for but we want to get the joke shop and research lab finished first.”

“Okay,” Harry replied. “My news now. I spoke with my Goblin team regarding that contract that Ron signed. The Goblins didn’t create the contract, but they are contractually obligated to enforce it. And that’s not going to stop any time soon. I had them read the contract over for any loopholes. They found one.”

“Yeah?” one of the ugly brothers replied, prompting for more information.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry smirked back. “It took a little creative thinking on it, but I think we can make it work. The tough part will be convincing Captain Stupid to go along with it. Ron likes to dig his heels in on anything he doesn’t understand.”

“No kidding, Harrykins,” George replied. “I’m surprised he ever passed first year at Hogwarts.”

Harry went on to explain the plan to the twins, who ended up grinning evilly back to their private investor.

“That plan is solid,” Fred said. “It will work.”

“When do you want to implement?” George pulled up his dayplanner.

“This weekend. I’ll send you another portkey and instructions of where to go.”

“We’ll be there, and so will Ron. Even if we have to stun and drag him along,” George agreed.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Harry grinned as he cut the connection.

**-o0o-**

Ron Weasley’s 5th year was supposed to be the first year his knowledge would be put to the test. He would go to school, study, and take test after test. It would be brutal. It would be hard. Difficult even. But he would get through it and when finished, he would have a perfect score on both practicals and theoreticals. He was slated to be a prefect, and in a few more years, he would be Head Boy. That was the plan. Then came Potter, the Goblins, and a closed school. Well, Potter did get rid of Malfoy, so Ron gave him a tad bit of respect for that.

On September 3rd, Ron and the rest of the true students, not those slimy snakes, headed home to waiting families. Ron, his brothers, and Ginny were picked up by their Mum and driven home. They had dinner, he played chess and later went to bed.

Ron woke up in his own bed on September 4th. It was the start of the best school year ever in his opinion. He got to wake up when he wanted, and he ate his mom’s cooking whenever he wanted. True, he was going to be home schooled, but his mum explained things in her class that were important to learn. Like when and how to put the meat in the gravy to season it, and when to save some for later to use as a late-night drink. Or how to capture the eggs from the hens without getting chased. Or pecked.

She started the Potions class, Percy did Charms, Bill did Defense, and the three of them rotated around doing Transfiguration, Cooking, Bed Tucking, Fun with Farm Animals, and Dusting. They did independent study daily when Mum wanted to listen to the wireless. Ron saw his fellow Gryffindors when they began coming to his house for home schooling as well.

And best of all, he didn’t have to see any of those annoying Slytherins. Slimy snakes!

True, during the past year he had put on some muscle and grown a bit, but since he could now concentrate on his Chudley Cannons instead of figuring a way to rescue Harry out of whatever situation he got himself in, he was sure he was going to get a job with the Cannons this year. Even if only for spending money.

All he had to worry about next was passing his OWLs in June. His Mum might even make him a second dinner that day. He’d need the strength to take the Astronomy OWL.

All in all, this was the greatest year he’d had in school.

So it was with some trepidation that Ron found himself sneaking out of the Burrow one Saturday morning to go on an errand with George and Fred. Then, next thing he knew, he was in Bordeaux, France, going through customs, then in a cab to a restaurant where he went with his brothers to a private dining room.

He noticed the important things right away. There were snacks. Crackers. Chocolate. A meat tray. And a fruit tray. Ron helped himself. After 10 minutes of stuffing his face, he turned his gaze to the door that opened. Harry Potter walked in.

Ron knew what to do in this situation. “Sorry, Harry, but this is a private room. We’ll have to ask you to leave.”

George smacked his own forehead in a clear sign of exasperation.

“Ron, this private room is for us to meet with Harry,” Fred pointed out.

Ron was confused. “Why are we meeting with a squib?”

“That’s the Ron I’ve known. Don’t ever change, mate,” Harry said, pulling out his new wand in order to put up several security wards he’d recently learned.

“You have a wand!” Captain Obvious… er… Ron said, pointing to the wand in Harry’s hand. “How do you have a wand?”

“Don’t tell anyone else this, Ron, but…” Harry paused. “I bought it. In a different country.”

“But… but… they’ll take it away from you when you go home to the Dursley.”

“Ah, the Dursleys. That’s something I will have to look into. Never mind about the wand, Ron. Hey, you’ve changed!”

“Well, yeah,” Ron returned. “It’s been a year since we saw each other.”

“Maybe. But the last time I saw you, you weren’t so fat. What have you been eating?”

“Everything he can,” Fred mumbled to his twin brother.

“I’m not fat!” Ron retorted hotly.

“Then what’s that spare tire you’re carrying around?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let’s get this meeting started.” Harry motioned for everyone to sit down at the small table in the room which could sit four people comfortably. Harry pulled out some papers and put them on the table, away from Ron’s snack plate that still held enough fruit and meat to feed Harry, George, and Fred combined.

Harry began. “Okay, to summarize. By Right of Conquest, I took ownership of chattel and all their properties, monies, and everything that had. Good so far? I met with the twins a bit back and they have agreed to go into business with me. Now Ron, this is why you are here: while appropriating the worldly goods of all my chattel, I found out that I am the majority stakeholder of a Quidditch team: the Falmouth Falcons.

“Figures,” Ron grimaced.

Harry ignored Ron’s snarky comment. “I know; lucky, right? Anyway, here’s the rub: league rules state that owners must reside in the same city their team is located in. Should I not meet these requirements for three consecutive years, I will lose that controlling interest and it will all file back to the junior partners – who are some of the old-school network guys, and who are also a bunch of fucking assholes.

“I can’t attend their games since the Falcons home town is Birmingham. Should I step back in England, the Arrest and Violently Kill on Site warrant that Fudge put out on me before he was chucked out of office then goes into effect. So here I am the owner of a team that I cannot watch, and cannot manage. And very soon, I will not own. Do you see where I’m going with this?

“You want me to manage your team for you?”

Harry shook his head. “Not quite. I want you to be the owner of the team. I want to give it to you.”

“I won’t accept charity,” Ron stated flatly.

“I know. You are still the Ron I’ve known for years, mate. So here’s my offer: A few years ago you signed a contract put forth by Snidely Whiplash (no relation), the owner of the Chudley Cannons. The contract basically stipulates that you will give 62% of your post-tax wages to Whiplash in perpetuity until you are released from said contract. In exchange for this 62%, you have full access to the team’s licensing materials as well as the ability to create, manage, and run the Cannon’s Hall of Fame anytime and anywhere you want.”

“I know. I’ve already started on the Hall of Fame.”

“No one is going to pay to see the Chudley Hall of Fame you are creating in your bedroom closet, Ron. Now, back to my offer. Option #1: If I were to give you the team outright, well that would be considered wages and Whiplash will get 62% of it until he eventually has all of it since there is no time or final compensation limit. So that option is out.”

“Good call,” Fred agreed.

“Thanks. Option #2: If I were to give the team to another person for them to own with the stipulation that you were to be brought in as the coach or player or in any capacity whatsoever, then again, Whiplash would get 62% of your wages, leaving you with next to nothing to live on. Not a good option for a bright kid who wants to make something of his life and maybe get married.”

George coughed a bit at that.

“Option #3: If I sell you the team…”

“I can’t afford to buy it!” Ron cried, anguish coming to the top.

“Not outright, you can’t. But if I sell you the team, structuring the contract to allow you to pay in payments for the next half century based off ticket sales, attendance, playoffs, and team points, then you have a way to own a team, manage the team, continuously finance the team, and keep Whiplash off your case.”

“I’m not following,” Ron admitted.

Harry signed. “Okay, follow my math here.”

“Arithmancy?”

“Sure. Whatever floats your boat. Follow this chain of logic, okay? One: you buy the team from a generous owner who will allow you to make payments for the next 50 years. Two: your budget will be managed by a Goblin accountant who will ensure you have enough galleons for stadium repair, player salaries, marketing, products, and so on. These are all financial matters that must be addressed before you get any money for yourself. Once all of that is handled, then you get a salary which will be about 10 galleons a year.”

“Hate to say this to you, Harry, but I won’t be able to live off that.”

“True,” Harry agreed. “And neither will Whiplash. Right now, he is getting additional compensation from your father, having garnished his wages since you are not working. But once you take your OWLs, and pass them, the financial burden falls to you.”

“I get how I can help my family with this, but how will I make a living as an owner? I won’t be able to feed myself for a week on 10 galleons.”

“Here is the ingenuity of my plan. The owner of a team has a box seat. He also has team offices, and the lockers have bathrooms and showers. We convert one of the offices to your new home. That takes care of living accommodations for you. Next, we ensure there is always some food in the stadium that you can eat. Again, this comes out of the overall stadium budget. That takes care of your stomach.”

“All right, I can see where this is going. Food, lodging paid for by the team fund before I get paid. All right. But what about clothes? Incidentals?” Harry was surprised at the question as it showed that Ron did have a brain after all.

“You have a couple options there too. You can borrow whatever you need from your brothers.”

“Shit, no.”

“Thought so. You can beg for it off the streets or from others.”

“Harry… again, shit no.”

“Just ribbing you. I have a way for the incidentals as well. You have full rights to the Cannon Hall of Fame. The Falcons play the Cannons 24 times a year.”

Ron’s eyes shot open in full panic. “Shit! Harry, you don’t mean…”

“Yes, you need to find a way to make your Cannon Hall of Fame a desirable location. It takes a long time for a team to get and maintain the loyalty of fans for their players. Decades usually. You don’t have that kind of time. However, it takes far less time to have fans want to come to a facility and watch a team be beaten repeatedly, each time more humiliating than the next. That is your Hall of Fame. No one ever said the Fame had to be a good fame. It just has to be famous.”

“But… but that would mean I, that is, the owner of the Falcons would have to beat the Cannons all the time.”

“Not quite right, Ron. The Falcons are beating them every game now. What you, as the new Falcons owner, would need to do is make sure the Cannons are crushed every game. The more imaginative and embarrassing the better. You will want the ‘more embarrassing’ part since that is what will drive your Falcon fans to come to your Cannons Hall of Fame that you can even put in the stadium. All proceeds from those ticket sales are something you would need to split with Whiplash after your stadium gets its cut for housing that Hall of Fame there. However, all proceeds from items sold in the gift shop fall under Falcons team revenue and you can stock whatever you need in that inventory, including clothes you want to wear, toiletries, Cannon toilet paper, even extra food.”

“I… I’m not sure if I can watch the Cannons get crushed over, and over again.”

“But you haven’t heard the best part, Ron. You will get to script the plays for the team. It will be your brilliance on the field that people will see. Your fans will be clamoring to see more plays by the famous Ron Weasley,” Harry said.

“I… I…”

“Think of the girls that will want to be with you, Ron,” George whispered.

Ron thought, but was still wavering.

“Or think of the boys that will want to be with Ginny if Harry makes her this offer instead,” Fred suggested.

“Ginny?! Hell no! This is my shot! I’ll take it, Harry! I deserve it more than her!”

“Care to take a vow on it?” Harry suggested.

“Shit, yes!”

“It just so happens I have the vow requirements for this contract right here.”

Ron followed the vow instructions for the contract to go into effect.

Vow complete, Harry began putting the papers away and said, “Good to hear you are part of the team, Ron. Go home. Take your OWLs. Pass them. After you take the tests, go to Gringotts and ask for the Falcons account manager. He will have the next set of papers ready.”

Ron wasn’t sure he had made the best decision. “Okay. I guess.”

“Have you tried those pastries at the end of the table, Ron? You should. Look for the long one that is a little crispy,” Harry motioned for his friend to go to the table.

Ron went past a plate of doughnuts, thought about eating them first, but then went to the tube-looking crispy pastries. He took a bite out of it and his eyes again shot open, this time in pleasure. “It’s… it’s…” he tried to say.

“It’s a Fried Twinkie, Ron,” Harry smiled at the redhead. “And as an owner, you can designate this treat be available in your stadium any time you want.”

Ron enjoyed the Fried Twinkie, but couldn’t shake the feeling of despair mixed with joy in his soul. He had to crush the Cannons all the time. That was going to be horrible. But what choice did he have? If only he hadn’t signed that Whiplash contract.

Ron did go home, pass his OWLs, and take ownership of the Falmouth Falcons. The first thing he did was have the Falcons live up to their name by having an enchanter work her magic on the team’s shirts in the gift shop where the logo would spout obscenities to anyone in front of it. He later amended that idea to include the logo shouting different obscenities to anyone wearing Cannon’s colors, and those shirts would be sold in the Hall of Fame only.

Whiplash was in Ron’s office the second day of his “ownership”. He was demanding 62% of the team, as Ron (and Harry, along with the Goblin accountants) had expected. Whiplash was not happy to find out that he was only going to get less than 7 galleons that year, and each year going forward from Ron’s wages.

Training camp started and soon enough the season was underway. Usually a new team owner would try to influence the team to do things his way and end up making the team suck eggs. Not Ron. He wanted the team to win. He needed the team to win. And they started winning. Especially against the Cannons. Each game they crushed the Cannons. At the end of each game, the coach gave praise to their new owner, Ron, for the inspired plays. Ron knew the Cannons inside and out. Designing plays against that team was as mentally easy as it was emotionally hard.

The next year, Ron opened his Cannons Hall of Fame in the Falcon’s stadium. People were unsure what that meant until they explored it and found all the plays that humiliated the Cannons were on display. That Hall of Fame was unofficially called the Cannons Hall of Shame. Fans went to it slow at first, but flocked to it after that first month. It was a hit and Whiplash did get some money from that attraction, even if it meant he was further humiliated. By the second year of the Hall of Fame’s existence, Ron did something totally unexpected. He cut the ticket price to the Hall to just a little over what he needed to break even by. This meant Whiplash got less, and more customers came in with more money to buy his souvenirs.

Ron never knew that Harry’s idea to give something to Ron was not born of the friendship that Ron felt was his due and fit his status, but was based on Harry’s belief that Ron was a bad friend who was unworthy of nice things given to him because Harry not only had a long memory, he also knew how to hold a grudge. Especially when Ron was being a total dick after Harry’s name had been called from the Goblet the other year.

Harry was more than satisfied to make Ron famous for something Ron would do, with the cost only being Ron’s infatuation with his beloved Chudley Cannons. It would take time, but Ron would find that fame and fortune didn’t always make a person happy. Even if he got a Fried Twinkie for lunch every day.

**-o0o-**

Harry had started his idea to help the Weasley family with some of the proceeds he had acquired from his chattel. He had managed to help Fred and George. And in some respect he had helped Ron, although Ron would always debate if it was help or not.

Harry had meant to ask Fred and George about the rest of the Weasleys during their monthly firecalls to discuss business, but the subject didn’t come up in the limited time Harry had before he had to cut the fire short and get moving before the ICW tracked him down again. Harry would ask the terror twins for a family update the next time. Yeah. Next time.

However, the “next time” was a long time in coming. And someone else supplied the information he didn’t even know that he needed to know.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
When I asked for ideas on what to do with Ron, many reviewers had good ideas of what should happen to Ron. I’ve incorporated a few here, so hope you see them. However, it was Beerguzzler500’s idea that I expanded on the most. It had a nice touch or irony here.

Looking at Ron, I always felt that his character was pretty much a jerk. As I do with most of these stories, I look for the unusual in a character. In this case, I wanted to explore why Ron was so infatuated with the Cannons. And why did he stay a loyal fan even when they totally blew. As is, the one story with Ron as the primary character that I have read and enjoyed was Harry Potter and the Champion’s Champion by driftwood1965.

This was actually going to be in a later chapter, but it got too big and had to be in its own stand-alone chapter. Hope you enjoyed.


	19. Shafting Luna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not what you think

**Author’s Note:**  
It goes without saying that there will be swearing. Actually, allow me to rephrase. There is a LOT of swearing here. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

**August 16, 1996**

“Hullo, Harry Potter,” a melodic voice said as its owner sat down at his table.

Harry looked up from the ‘Dear Abby’ article he was reading to see a young woman with blond hair tied in a ponytail. She was smiling and had blue eyes. He remembered seeing her at Hogwarts a time or two, but honestly couldn’t place her name.

“Uh… hullo?” he replied.

“You are a difficult person to track down, you know,” she replied, stealing a cucumber slice from his salad that he hadn’t wanted to eat and had subsequently shoved to the furthest point away from him on his plate not 10 minutes earlier.

“I should hope so,” Harry replied with a smirk. “I am after all a wanted man.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say you are wanted so much as reviled,” she said, pulling out a notebook. “I hope you don’t mind, but I am hoping we can have an interview. It won’t be a quickie I’m afraid as I do have more than a few questions.”

Harry’s education had changed somewhat after leaving Hogwarts, mostly at the discretion of his hyper-sex-addicted godfather’s request. Still, Harry wasn’t sure he quite understood what this young woman across from him had implied.

“You sure you wouldn’t mind a quickie?” he arched an eyebrow. “After all, I’m sure you ICW-types know all about those kinds of things since you’ve screwed so many people over.”

“Even though you asked politely, I am afraid the interview must come first. And I am not with the ICW by the way. Your last stunt led to several other nations pulling out of that accord and they are seriously cash-strapped for it. No, my name is Luna Lovegood and I am with… The Quibblerrrrrrrrrr.”

“Nice way to trill the ‘r’ at the end of that word, Luna.”

“Did you like my voice resonating up and down? I’ve been practicing.”

“Very nice,” Harry agreed. “And how am I to be convinced that you are not an ICW agent looking for revenge?”

Luna tapped her pen against her lips as she thought two things: first, how to answer Harry’s question, and second, can she take that other cucumber slice. “Well, that is a conundrum. If I say I’m not with the ICW, which I have, you don’t have to believe me, which you don’t, and you can ask to see my ICW credentials, which I don’t have, and then get up in a huff and leave me be, which is your right, thereby leaving me alone with the remnants of your salad, specifically your cucumber slices, which are going to waste.”

As Harry thought that through, Luna stole the rest of his cucumber slices. He turned his attention back to her, saw her vigorously chewing the rest of those cucumber slices (good riddance), and gave her a task. “Prove to me you are not with the ICW. Do something they won’t.”

“Okay,” Luna smiled and took a sip of Harry’s water. “Here goes. Ahem. Two ICW representatives walk into a bar and sit down to eat their sack lunches since they are cheap ass sons of bitches. The bartender walks over with the glasses of water and says, ‘Sorry, but you can’t eat your own food in here.’ So, the two ICW reps look at each other and swap lunches. Get it? The ICW reps, who had a lot of money at one time are now broke since all the fines they had to pay after you exposed them swindling the Wizengamot’s remaining funds from England.”

“Hmmmm,” Harry hmmmmed. “You know, if you have to explain a joke, then it’s not funny.”

“I see what you mean,” Luna replied, looking for any more cucumbers, and not seeing them. “How about this: An Auror stops an ICW representative driving in his Lamborghini Diablo and asks, ‘Excuse me, sir. Have you been drinking?’ The ICW representative looks at the Auror and says, ‘Why? Do I have an ugly girl next to me?’”

“Better,” Harry smiled.

“Okay. Last one. One day, Andy’s teacher told her class that everyone must find out a moral for the next day’s class. The next day, the students arrived. One boy came in and said: ‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’ Another boy said, ‘Don’t judge a book its cover.’ A girl said, ‘Lipstick on a pig is still a pig.’ Then Andy came in with a broken jaw and black eyes. He said, ‘I asked my Uncle Boris for a moral and he told me to shut up. I told him he had to help me because it was homework.’ The teacher looked at the quiet Andy and said, ‘What was the moral, Andy?’ The boy replied, ‘Don’t mess with Uncle Boris when he’s drinking due to the ICW collapse.’”

“Okay,” Harry grinned easily. “That proves it.”

“Proves what?” she returned.

“Proves that you are not with the ICW. That fuckers don’t have a sense of humor.”

“That’s true,” Luna agreed.

“So how did you find me?”

“Simple, really. I asked myself what would a nice, 16-year-old boy do if he were out on his own with a few sickles to rub together. Then I decided to go in an opposite direction and ended up here at a sidewalk café in Morrison, Colorado where I found you like I knew I would.”

“You found me that easily?”

“Of course. It’s not like you were magically hidden or your location a super-secret or anything.”

“Um, actually it is. For both things you said,” Harry pointed out.

“Oh. Well, as long as I’m here, how about an interview for my father’s paper?”

Harry, initially skeptical of the girl, but warming up to Luna, was still leery of any newspaper and voiced his opposition to an interview. And Luna, being Luna, expressed her position that he do the interview for no other reason other than to give the British magicals one last poke in the eye at the very least. They essentially repeated these arguments back and forth for 30 minutes while Harry finished his lunch and Luna also finished the parts of Harry’s lunch that he didn’t want.

Finally, Harry relented, they ordered deserts and some sweet drinks, and the interview began.

“My first question is: how are you enjoying the fruits of your labors after having single-handedly set in motion the financial demise of the British magical nation?”

“I’m enjoying it very well, thank you. I don’t have to be looked down upon by anyone, tortured by teachers, vilified by the press or a government. In fact, I can actually wake up when I want to, eat what I want to, and generally enjoy life. And I chalk it all up to one of the golden rules.”

“Which rule is that?” Lune replied.

“He who has the gold, makes the rules. I have all the gold, so I get to make my own rules. The fact that I am not doing any making of rules in England is immaterial.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is more than immaterial to some individuals. For example, the pureblood dogma that many advocated and adopted could not survive without the financial backing that your chattel spent.”

“Well, good fucking riddance to that,” Harry smirked.

“And Gringotts? Well, it couldn’t survive as it was without the bigger customers, and the use of their money to make money, so it modified itself,” Luna snagged one of the finger snacks on the dessert plate.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I figured it would. What is it doing now?”

“It’s part pawn shop, part loan sharks, but pursuant to banking laws passed centuries ago, they still offer one teller window at any given time. This allows them to legally retain the word ‘bank’ in their documentation. But their biggest flow of business in England has been expanding their curse-breaking teams and renting them out.”

That was something Harry had not heard before. “They breaking into tombs in Egypt? Or South America somewhere?”

“Oh no,” Luna explained. “The individuals that rent out the curse-breaking teams loot the warded homes of former dark ministry employees. Or anyone else what was formerly an elitist snob brought low without death-eater money to back up their beliefs. These individuals of course do not want to be robbed, but since the individuals renting the curse-breakers don’t have to worry about being caught by the non-existent Aurors… well, there you go.”

“Huh. Aurors. Bastards too. Fuck ‘em. Fudge’s fuckers were the worst.”

“As for the businesses in Diagon Alley, they couldn’t survive without paying customers, so they modified themselves and expanded into the muggle economy as best they could.”

“Oh? How so?”

“First, the Leaky Cauldron removed its muggle repelling wards. And removed the barricade from Diagon Alley. Then several individuals were sent out as hawkers to draw interest into a medieval part of London. All magic was hidden as new Diagon has become a tourist trap.

“Of course, that brought the people in. What keeps them coming back are the revitalized shops. Flourish & Blotts removed all magical tomes and currently stocks custom quill-made novels as quirky chic items to sell to tourists; who knew that older looking books supposedly made by Willy Shakespeare would sell so well. I take that back as apparently several muggle-borns knew it and have gone into business doing this.”

“Well, good for them,” Harry cheered the inventiveness of the muggle-borns.

“And Madam Malkin’s? She’s is out of making school robes now. She was close to shutting her doors when a Goblin collection agent showed up and told her that she did not have the recourse to file for Chapter 11 like in the muggle world. And after explaining what that meant to her, she quickly realized if she didn’t do something to make money she was going to be repossessed herself.”

“Sounds harsh,” Harry admitted.

“It could have been. Fortunately, a few more non-purebloods showed up and helped her out. She is now making bonnets, shawls, long gloves, top hats, long coats, tall collars, and striped trousers for the tourists wanting the upper crust Elizabethan experience and everything from breeches, waistcoats, stockings, garters, and even some tricorn hats for those looking at a different age. It is a big success from what I’ve heard and seen. Some witches from Knockturn have even opened a salon to get the latest hairdos from 1740 or 1850.”

“So Madam Malkin is doing well these days?”

“Her shop is, that’s for sure. Her debt has been paid off to Gringotts, but from what I heard it is now in the control of a muggle-born corporation. Funny how new ideas just flow into Gringotts these days.”

“Heh, heh. Yeah. Funny,” Harry agreed.

“The Ministry of Magic: they couldn’t make payroll so most of the workers quit to find new work. Some have even left Britain altogether.”

“Yeah, well, fuck ‘em.”

“Hmmm. Yes, I do believe they are. As for the ICW: you catching them with their hand in the cookie jar as they tried to steal the cookie jar had repercussions. Their nefarious plot to steal England’s remaining Ministry funds from the Ministry was not taken lightly by any of the remaining member nations. Fortunately, it was recorded and the perpetrators arrested. However, they are currently out on bail, using their house as collateral I believe. But their directors and upper management are still being grilled in meetings. The ICW did end up paying a fairly hefty fine to both Britain and to one Harry Potter who they tried to Veela-allure-swindle. Nasty business that. The other ICW nations were not happy with the ICW before since they had been raising fees for years, and used this as provocation to begin cessation of ICW’s charter. There is a lot of infighting going on now. Without the ICW to step in, several countries are talking about invading one another to ensure old slights get resolved.”

“Yeah, well, fuck ‘em too.”

“Hogwarts School was shut down and the teachers had to find another source of income. Most left Scotland, and a few went to the other schools who needed capable teachers with the influx of former Hogwarts students. The remaining teachers hire themselves out as tutors.”

“They made their bed. Every single one of them. Fuck most of them.”

“Professor Snape was collared in the Day of Goblins. I had a front-row seat for it, thank you. He was dragged out of Hogwarts never to be seen again. Pity. Well, pity for him.”

“Yeah, well, he’s being fucked, so piss on his memory. Fucking bastard.”

Luna continued. “Even though Hogwarts was closed, it was not forgotten as it has somehow become a trendy new B&B for muggles. Complete with ‘magic’ of all things. The wait-list is now two months long. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Uh, yeah. Interesting,” Harry agreed with a forced smile.

“Indeed. Especially since it appears to be staffed by some of those same students and their family members who were taken by the Goblins last September 1st.”

“Uh, yeah, these things happen,” Harry fiddled with his glass of cola.

“Oh, I’m not complaining or anything. The ghosts seem to be having a good time scaring the muggles.”

“Well, as long as the dead are having fun… Wait! You’ve been there?!”

“Why yes, I have, thank you for asking. I had to write an article about it. And did you know that with Hogwarts closed for schooling, the students had to find alternatives?”

“I’m pretty sure that was implied when the school was shut down and the tuitions returned,” Harry pointed out.

“Indeed. The better half of the Golden Trio…”

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Hermione. She was being homeschooled at the Weasley house as Molly has access to plenty of potion ingredients along with several instructors.”

“Instructors? Who? Flitwick?”

“Oh no. Molly’s children who are unemployed. There’s Percival who was let go at the Ministry. He was a bit upset with that since he was willing to work there for no pay but the current management still didn’t want him. Then there’s William who was not able to transfer to another Gringotts, so was let go. And Arthur is only working part time at the Ministry these days.”

Harry grimaced at the thought of hard times. “Damn, I wish things were better for them. I need to talk with the twins on that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too worried for them. Molly is turning her side business of creating love potions into a lucrative business.”

“Love potions? Really?” Harry grimaced.

“You don’t know? She’s been perfecting them with you in mind. In fact, I wouldn’t have been surprised you had been dosed a time or two.”

“Well… fuck. Any idea how I would know?”

“Do you have the hots for anyone named Weasley?”

“Shit no.”

“Then you’re fine,” Luna calmed Harry down with a smile.

“Mrs. Weasley was really trying to dose me with love potions? That is some seriously fucked up shit.”

“Indeed. I believe Hermione thought the same thing since I saw her throttling Ronald almost daily. Of course, that may have been her just being out of patience with his poor work ethic. It seems that when the Hogwarts school year was canceled, he thought he was going to just have a year off from school, play chess whenever he wanted, and eat all day.”

“Yeah, Hermione really doesn’t like lazy slackers. Hope she smacked some sense into his thick noggin.”

“She tried, but I think she was unable to fully express her displeasure since she needed Molly’s homeschooling. Without the safety of Hogwarts and its wards, she was convinced that others would seek her out to do her harm since she was your closest friend.”

“Hogwarts’ vaunted wards? Really? Those wards fucking sucked eggs. The only thing they kept out of the school grounds were the good guys. No, that school had to go.”

“Oh, I agree,” Luna agreed. “Molly wouldn’t agree though since she and Arthur were getting heavily discounted tuition rates as perks for being Order members. Hermione wasn’t happy with that fact either, especially since her parents had to give the same tuition to Molly as they had planned for with Hogwarts.

“She’s charging Hermione’s parents a full Hogwarts tuition and only home-schooling her? Mother fucker!” Harry was outraged for his once-best-friend.

“Oh, father thought the same thing. I’m being homeschooled at the Weasley’s as well. So is Neville and both of the Creevey’s.”

“Well… glad to hear everyone is doing okay education-wise even if it is at money-grabbing Molly’s school of Love Potion Making.”

“Well, not so much for Ginny as Colin is constantly stalking her with his camera. I’m pretty sure he will get some nude pictures of her one day and sell them.”

“Oh, um, good for the little fucking pervert then.”

“Yes, I’m sure she will come around to his advances. It wouldn’t be the first time for her after all.”

“Um… ok?”

Luna looked over Harry’s shoulder at a waitress who was delivering another dessert item, but only to a different table. Mmmmm. Strawberry shortcake. “Oh yes, without you around, and now considered a type of squib by magical Britain, she has set her sights on poor Neville. She has already managed to catch him alone a few times when her shirt sort of magically falls off. Neville has since taken to hanging around with Colin and he in turn goes around with his camera. I give it two more months.”

“Two months for what?” Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Two months before Colin gets his picture of Ginny’s boobs and then starts to blackmail her to go out with him. And then I give that four months. Hey, can we get some Strawberry shortcake like that table over there?”

“I hate to ask, but four months for what?”

“Four months before Ginny has enough blackmail on Colin. Unfortunately I don’t think Ginny’s blackmail will be sufficient on Colin and I give it a 50-50 probability of Ginny either ending up the youngest Page 3 girl candidate, or Ginny and Colin actually having a night of passionate sex.”

“You know, I don’t want to fucking get involved with this fucking mess.”

“Me either,” Luna said while taking a drink of water.

“Miss? Some Strawberry shortcake for my guest, please? Thank you.”

Luna smiled at her interview subject. “Thank you, Harry. I’ll make sure to put the whipped cream to good use. Now, as for the rest of the students who were kicked out of Hogwarts, all the remaining Gryffindors are now being homeschooled or attending day classes at smaller schools around Britain since most schools consider Gryffindors pig-headed, glory-seeking buffoons.”

Harry shrugged at it. “Ah well, it’ll give them character once they get out to the real world and have to earn a living that isn’t controlled by a fucking ministry that is led by some shit-for-brains.”

“One of those exists?”

Harry grinned. “Point to you, Miss Lovegood. How about the rest of the students?”

“All the remaining Slytherins went to Durmstrang.”

“Figures. Fuck ‘em.”

“All 5th-year and above Ravenclaws went to Durmstrang.”

“Fuck ‘em.”

“Yes, I agree. They should be fucked. Hopefully my missives to some cousins out there will look into doing that.”

“Um, ok?”

“The remaining Ravenclaws went to Salem.”

“Fuck ‘em too.”

“The Hufflepuffs all went en-mass to Beauxbatons.”

“Fuck ‘em too.”

Luna looked over her notepad she had been writing in and across the table to her interviewee. She sat quietly until Harry, alerted by the sudden quiet, looked her in the eyes instead of constantly looking around for any sort of attack.

“Luna?” Harry started.

She arched her eye and replied, “Is that all you want to fuck?”

“Wha…?”

“I mean, you are constantly saying to fuck this or that person,” she pointed out, her left eyebrow slowly arching up.

Harry choked on a bite of pie, then looked around for the waiter. “Check please!”

“And pack the Strawberry shortcake to go! With extra whip cream!”

**-o0o-**

Luna did send her article into the Quibbler several days later. Strawberry stains and whip cream were smeared all over it.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
We are getting closer to the end.  
Luna was born 13-Feb-1981.  
Harry was born 31-July-1980.  
Harry was 16 and Luna 15 when they met at the café.  
Boris and Yvette’s fate still to come.


	20. Shafting the Dursleys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only it could only happen to Dudley this way

**Author’s Note:**  
I have enjoyed shafting as many people in this story as I can. As for the Dursley family… well, let’s just say that their update came very naturally. Since they didn’t like magic as it was oh-so-freakish, I decided to allow them to do something that was freakish without being magical.

**-o0o-**

Dudley grew up in a house where one thing was certain: the freak was less than human. He grew up, beat up the freak whenever he wanted, ran him to ground, ran him up trees, and basically had the time of his life whenever he was putting the freak in his place.

That changed the summer of 1995. That was when something evil came to their neighborhood and almost killed him. Nearly killed Potter too. Then things got strange. Soon enough Potter was gone. More freaks came and took him.

Things got back to normal. Kind of. He met his friends. He hung out with them. But he was changed. He knew it deep down. Whatever those freak things were that came to his neighborhood had left their mark. His mum and dad blustered past it but he knew something was not right. He knew it deep down.

Fall came and he went back to school. But his head and heart were just not in it. It was no surprise to him that he was expelled by December. He was home for Christmas and knew he wasn’t being sent away again. His mother and father were not happy with him being expelled. It was all the freak’s fault, they knew. And said. Loudly.

“Don’t you worry, Dudley,” his father patted his arm at the table the morning after he returned home. “We’ll make sure the freak pays for it when he returns next summer. Oh yes, he’ll pay.”

His parents made the necessary arrangements and by the start of the new year, Dudley would be attending Little Whinging’s secondary, Stonewall High, with Piers Polkiss, his first ever friend. Christmas came and the Dursley clan opened presents that morning while avoiding the overriding message of Peace on Earth and Good Will to men. Vernon especially did not subscribe to that silly notion. Peace on Earth? Not until the freaks were gone, as far as he was concerned.

December 26th, Boxing Day, Dudley’s funk broke as he had an epiphany. Boxing Day. Boxing. He knew boxing. He needed something to do with his time and energy. Boxing. He needed to take up boxing again. He needed to resume his lessons. And he needed a way to keep in shape with those skills. He had already talked with Piers, but now it was time to talk with the old gang.

Phone in hand, he started calling. Ten minutes later he was set to meet with his old gang. More like, those that would show. More like, he was meeting up with Piers. Turns out that while Dudley went to Smeltings, the others in his gang had undergone transformations. It wasn’t religious – although one said he saw God over a long evening one night. It wasn’t that they moved out of the neighborhood – they hadn’t. No, it was that they had all found girlfriends. And these girlfriends wanted them to stay away from Piers, and by association, Dudley.

Piers and Dudley hung out and Piers gave Big D the lowdown on Stonewall. They did not have the same classes together as Dudley had gotten past the remedial subjects and into some of the more standardized classes. However, ‘it’ happened to Dudley. Early January, second day of school, third period. Dudley remembered that day. That time even. That was when he met… his girlfriend.

“She’s so beautiful, Piers,” Dudley told his friend during lunch.

“Yeah, Dud. You said. What I don’t get is how you managed to score her so fast. You just met her today!”

“Her lips are delicious. I want to kiss them so bad,” Dud swooned.

“Yeah, I heard you say that already, Dud. So, c’mon. When are you going to bring her over to meet me?”

“Meet… what?”

“Meet me, Dudley. You take her by the hand and bring her to meet me.”

“Oh, uh… well, I guess I could do that.” Dudley ate a greasy fry. “Maybe.”

“Dud, what’s the score?”

“I guess I still need to ask her to be my girlfriend,” Dudley eventually admitted after first eating the rest of the bag of greasy fries.

“Shit, Dud,” Piers complained.

**-o0o-**

“Stacy?” Dudley approached a blond girl he had met the other day in his class. Her name, he found out, was Stacy Johnson, and she was his age. She was standing by a locker, its door open.

“What?” she said before turning around. “Oh. You’re the new kid, right? What’cha need?”

“I… uh… um…”

“C’mon, spit it out already.”

“Would you like to go out with me, you know, sometime?”

She looked at him for a minute, trying to figure if she was being pranked. She realized he was serious. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. You? Really?”

“Why not me?” Dudley snapped back.

“Because you are a loser?” she replied honestly.

“I’m not a loser!” Dudley responded hotly.

“Fine. You’re not a loser. You’re just a fucking fat freak of nature,” her voice had morphed from irritated to vexed.

“I’m not a freak of nature,” Dudley was aghast. Shocked. “My cousin is a freak, but not me. And I’m not fat. I’m just big boned. Big bones help when you fight. In fact, I’m training to be a boxer now.”

“Yeah?” she thought. “Then if you’re such a strong boy, then why don’t you box Carl over there?”

Dudley’s gaze went to the “Carl” that Stacy pointed towards. He was an older boy who looked like he played rugby and ate rocks for fun. Dudley wondered if Carl was on the brute squad. Or was the entire brute squad.

He gulped and looked back at Stacy. “I, ah… I left my boxing gloves at home.”

Stacy snorted. “That’s what I thought. Keep away from me, you gutless freak.”

**-o0o-**

“Piers,” Dudley agreed during the last period. “I know I have to do something. But what?”

“Dud,” Piers thought aloud. “You need to do something to impress the chick. Go beat up some other kids in front of her.”

“I don’t think that will be enough,” Dudley said morosely.

“You could always beat Stacy up,” Piers worked the logic out somehow. What logic that was exactly, no one other than Piers would ever know.

“Can’t do that, Piers. I want to date her, not put her in traction.” He took a deep breath. “I think I need to beat Carl up.”

**-o0o-**

The next day, after Dudley’s last class, he headed for his locker. As fate would have it, Stacy was at her locker (which was in the same hall as his) and that lout, Carl, came up the stairs and was headed towards him. Nervous energy flooded into his veins like ice.

Dudley headed straight for Carl. “Hey,” Dudley began.

“What’cha need, kid?” Carl said.

“I need to beat you up for the right to see Stacy,” Dudley announced in a loud voice.

Carl scratched his head. “Who’s Stacy?”

“My girlfriend,” Dudley said matter-of-factly.

Carl was still trying to figure this out. “If she’s your girlfriend, then why I am fighting you to see if I can date her? I already have a girlfriend. And her name is not Stacy.”

More and more students were attracted to a possible fight, like moths to a flame. Dudley noticed that even Stacy moved closer to see what was going on. He caught her eye. It was now or never! Dudley took a swing at Carl.

Carl moved quicker than Dudley and elbowed him in the gut before spinning him 180, throwing his arm around him, and planting him into the floor, his knee giving a solid ‘hello’ into Dud’s appendix. Total time: 4 seconds.

Dudley groaned as the students dispersed. Including Stacy leaving without a backwards glance.

**-o0o-**

“Dudley,” his father said to him at dinner that night. “Your mother told me what happened at school today. I know Stonewall is far inferior to Smeltings, but you cannot simply let bullies beat you up and take your lunch money away.”

“Yes, dad,” Dudley replied, stuffing more fried potatoes into his mouth.

“Look, I know you have a little boxing under your belt from your time at Smeltings, so you can understand why I’m confused why you didn’t fight back.”

“Um, I did fight back, dad. But there is a big difference between fighting in the ring and fighting at school.”

Vernon thought about that for a few minutes, chewing his fried sausages mixed with fried peas and fried carrots. He stuffed some fried bread into his jowls as well. “Yes,” he finally said. “I remember what it was like when I met some youths from a local school when I was your age. They fought dirty. Not honorably like good quality folk like us would do.”

“Right, dad,” Dudley agreed, hoping they would have fried chocolate pudding for dessert.

“Vernon,” Petunia said, dipping her fried lettuce into some fried dressing. “What can we do to ensure Dudley’s safety at that horrible school?”

“I think our son needs to learn how to fight on the streets,” Vernon nodded somberly while eyeing the fried fruit bowl. “I’ll make some space in the back shed where Dudley and I can do some sparring; street-fighting sparring that is.”

“Oooohhh, Vernon,” Petunia put her fried radish down. “Do you remember when you fought that awful Mitch McConnell (no relation) over me when I was in school?”

“Heh, heh, do I ever,” Vernon grinned.

**-o0o-**

That evening, Dudley invited Piers over to help clean out the shed so that his father could train both of them the art of street fighting. It took both of them almost two hours to clean the shed out and when finished, Vernon came outside into the cool air. He began to give them instructions on what to do if this or that should happen. How to break a bottle on a table and gut someone with it.

Vernon’s instruction might have worked except for one fatal flaw. He was a moron who didn’t know jack shit about anything. Vernon relied on his own knowledge relating to street fighting, not realizing that Mitch had taken a dive all those decades ago in an effort to get rid of the girl who was more like a leech than the flower she was named after.

There wasn’t much use in buying equipment for Dudley and Piers to use. One: Vernon realized that in a street fight, you needed to be able to use whatever was available around you. And two: Vernon was a fucking tight ass cheap bastard who didn’t want to spend any money when he didn’t have to. Harry Potter was a fine example of that belief system.

Over the next few months, Dudley and Piers sparred with one another using whatever equipment was at hand. True, if they were in a street fight and happened to have some hoes, shovels, and a rake (not a plastic one, but a real metal one), then they might be fine. But that was not likely to happen. They even realized this and spent time sparring with their fists. They quickly realized that bone-on-bone hitting hurt more now than in their Harry-hunting days. They got around this by pulling off their belts, wrapping them around their fists and then hitting. That did the trick and each of them went to their respective homes bloody more than a few times.

They practiced almost every night and on weekends. Well, practice being a few minutes in the crappy shed and getting hit with shitty tools or wrapped hands. The rest of the time was spent on strategy. This is where they employed a tutor. An electronic tutor. With a joystick and controllers. That Commodore system was simply amazing!

**-o0o-**

At end of that school year, Dudley felt like he was in good shape both mentally and physically. It was time to win Stacy’s affection.

**-o0o-**

“So?” Piers prompted his only friend.

Dudley hung his head. “She said she still didn’t want anything to do with a freak of a loser like me,” he replied, looking at Piers’ bag of greasy fries, a school lunch staple. It was worth coming back to local school if for that only, Dudley thought.

“You can’t let that comment go unchecked,” Piers insisted.

“Oh, I won’t.” Dudley put another fry into his mouth, not bothering to tell him that he had overheard Stacy’s plan to go to London the upcoming Saturday to meet with someone at lunchtime in Leicester Square. Also left unsaid was Dudley’s resolve to track her down and confront her with this mysterious man, beat him up, and take her in his arms.

**-o0o-**

June 15th, 1996

Dudley took a train into London and made his way to Leicester Square early so he could watch where his Stacy went. It wouldn’t be hard then to intimidate the guy she meets into leaving. He’d done that same routine often enough when he was growing up and someone wanted to talk to his cousin.

There was only one problem. The Square was a lot bigger than he thought. And to make matters worse, it was crowded. With bloody foreigners. Tourists of all things! Blast! Still, Dudley trudged on. He had to find Stacy. He wandered around the city, trying to find his Stacy. He saw shops, looked at restaurants through their windows until the staff inside shooed him away, usually by bribing him with some food they normally gave the homeless to move on, and he even thought about climbing a statue or two to get a better view of where his Stacy could be.

That all came to an abrupt end at about 11:30 am local. Dudley looked into a music store at the latest releases, his Discman on and the headphones straining to cover both ears, he didn’t hear someone come up near him and say something. He did, however, feel the tapping on his shoulder.

He took his headphones off and the man introduced himself.

“G’day, mate. My name’s Max Smirnoff. I’m from Australia.”

“I don’t know where the money exchanger is,” Dudley replied automatically.

“Nah, don’t need money exchanged, mate. I’m here on a work visa. Y’see, I work for Tri-S Productions. I’m a talent scout.”

“The kind that look for all the young girls? Then get them to strip?” Dudley asked excitedly.

“Nah. That’s another organization. What we do are action videos. And it just so happens we are looking for a beefy young man to help out on stunts for a TV show that we are working on. And I think you could fit that bill. Interested?”

“You mean I could be on TV?” Dudley said, getting more excited.

“Most like,” responded Max. “Say, I’m not keepin’ you from anythin’, am I?”

“Oh no,” Dudley replied immediately. “I’m not doing anything here.”

“Great! How would you like to meet the production crew? They’re in a building around the corner?”

“Sure!”

All too soon, Dudley (who had long forgotten Stacy) met the production crew. It consisted of three cameramen (Joe, Bob, and Kip) who doubled with sound, a gopher (Doug), a director (Chester), and a phone that allowed the director to call the producer at any time.

Chester and Dudley spoke for nearly 30 minutes. Chester explained what he was looking for: he had an actor in mind for the role, but there would be a lot of stunts involved with fighting extraterrestrials, fighting off the mob, things like that. Dudley certainly looked like he could fill in for that actor as the stunt person. Chester offered to pay Dudley 4,000 pounds a week for his stunt work on this project.

However, Dudley replied, “Wow. I accept. Only, I don’t know how to do stunt work.”

“Not to worry, Dudley. Here is a manual on the type of stunts we need. Just go home this weekend and practice them. We’ll talk more on Monday. Come in early so we can see how far you’ve come along, okay? Oh, and bring a guardian since you look underage and we will need their signature on the forms allowing you to do this work and be paid for it.”

“Okay!”

Dudley was home as soon as he could. He told his father all about the job offer, had his father read the contract (it seemed legit his father said), and then they looked at the manual of stunts that were needed for the show.

Vernon offered to help Dudley with the first set of stunts. It was a fight scene in a bar. They went to the back shed and attempted to do the stunts of a blow across the mouth, to the nose, and to the eye. Dudley did learn to get faster after the initial blows quit stinging.

Vernon tried to show his son the importance of timing and had Dudley take swings at him. Like father, like son. Vernon’s face eventually quit stinging as well.

But then it was time for round 2.

**-o0o-**

Monday, June 17th, 1996

Dudley was back at the Tri-S Productions studio by 10am that morning. His face was filled with bruises and his knuckles were not much better.

“Hmmm,” Chester rubbed his own chin as he looked over this stunt double. “No, that won’t do, I’m afraid. Tell me how your face came to look like a piece of battered meat.”

Dudley, now more dejected than he thought he ever would be, told Chester how he and his father had used his boxing practice area to try out the stunts in the manual.

“Boxing you say?” Chester’s eyes lit up. “That gives me an idea.” Chester then went to the Producer phone, called someone and spoke with them at length. He hung the phone back in its cradle after 10 minutes and returned to Dudley. Vernon, who had accompanied Dudley, and was also as bruised, looked on from behind his son.

“Dudley, Vernon,” Chester smiled at both of them. “The stunt work we thought of for your son is now on hold. But,” he held up a finger to forestall any arguments. “The producer thinks my next idea is even better. How would you two like to be famous?”

“Doing what?” Vernon said.

“We would like you two to do stunts in your own home. We could install cameras throughout the house to catch it all. These will be small cameras that no one will see. We don’t want to lose the element of surprise. But we would want you and anyone else you have in the house to do stunts. Like your boxing in the dining room. You could box each other and maybe break some china plates – things like that.”

“But my wife would not like her furniture broken,” Vernon pointed out, seeing the biggest negative right away.

“As a good wife should look out for her family,” Chester agreed. “We would, of course, pay to replace anything you break. Just think of it. You could practice your boxing in the comforts of your home. We will replace anything you break. But most importantly: you will be on TV!”

Vernon and Dudley were still hesitant, so Chester brought in lunch for them to talk it over. They ate, talked, ate, and ate some more. Vernon signed the contract. This was his shot at being famous!

Vernon drove himself and Dudley home. It was mid-afternoon when they pulled into the garage. Petunia was out. Vernon and Dudley went to the back shed to strategize what kind of stunts they could do inside the house. They also came up with a brilliant plan to surprise Petunia with this idea after neglecting to get her buy-in on the contract that Vernon signed.

**-o0o-**

Tuesday, June 18th, 1996

Vernon again took a day off from work. He ushered his wife out of the house for a few hours, saying to do something girly, and amended that statement when she asked if she should go see the men strippers. He told her to go see a movie or something. She knew he was up to something and figured it would be a good surprise for her. So off she went, saying she would be back by lunch.

Once out, the production company crewmen showed up in a non-descript, window-covered white van. The men quickly put cameras up in every corner of the house’s main floor. They did cover the stairwells going up and down, but did not bug the bedrooms.

“Okay, Vernon,” Chester said to the two of them in the house once the crew was done hiding all the cameras. “The cameras are installed. They are profession house models so are very small. Don’t be surprised if you can’t see them. We made them to blend in the background. Your home is now going to be like MTV’s Real World house.”

“Okay,” Vernon said as he and Dudley both grinned about being on TV.

“We’re thinking of calling this show the Dursley Real House of Pratfalls. Sound good?”

“Oh, yeah,” Dudley agreed. He knew that once this show went on the air, he’d be able to score any girl, any Stacy he wanted.

“Great. We are not going to have any camera operators in the house like MTV does. We will record everything and send it to remote locations, editing it there. This will give you and your family the ability to do anything spontaneously. Make sense?”

“You bet,” Vernon grinned, thinking of the money they were going to make on this.

“Great. Just sign these papers and I’ll be off. We’ll come by daily to show you some of the footage we gathered as well as replace anything that gets broken. Sound good? Great. Thank you for signing that form, Vernon. We will now place all of your earning in your bank account and give you statements by hand. See you tomorrow.”

In the house now empty of others, Vernon and Dudley started with a few face smacks.

“Feeling the blood moving now?” Vernon asked his son.

“You bet, dad. Leathers now?”

“Absolutely, son.”

The two pulled a bag out of the cupboard under the stairs. The bag contained several things boxers would use, including leather straps to cover their knuckles which boxers used centuries ago. The leather almost looked that old. Vernon had managed to find them in a used store, the cheap bastard that he was.

“Okay, Dudley. Here’s one across the kisser!” Vernon smiled as he threw a right punch to Dudley’s face.

Dudley’s left jaw met that right punch and Dudley went sprawling with the momentum. He land on the floor, got back up and said for his dad to try that again. Vernon did just that and Dudley again went flying into a chair, knocking it over. The two traded blows for a little longer.

Finally, Vernon whacked his son who fell right on top of the living room coffee table. The table was vastly lighter than Dudley and the laws of gravity went into effect when he landed on it. Meaning, the table could not sustain a much heavier object on it and therefore broke. Splintered actually.

“Dudley!” Petunia Dursley shrieked from the doorway, having seen her son fall on the coffee table. “What the hell is going on here?! Stop this foolishness right now! I won’t have it, you hear me?!” She looked at her two men. Vernon had a bloody nose. Dudley had a swollen eye and a cut lip.

“Do you two have any idea of what you have just done? That coffee table you just destroyed was made by my father. He made it with his own hands when I was a little girl. I sat on the stool as I watched him in the workshop laboriously cutting, carving, sanding, and staining it. It meant everything to Lily and I was the one who got it when mummy and father died.”

“Pet,” Vernon grinned at his wife. “I want to tell you about this contract Dudley and I have signed.” Vernon and Dudley then told her all about the Tri-S production company and the show they were filming in their house right now. And what they were being paid.

At the end of the explanation, Petunia looked around the house. “Hmmm,” she thought aloud. “We could use some new furniture. And we will be on TV.”

“That’s the spirit, mom,” Dudley smiled at his mother.

“Did you know that I used to do gymnastics as a kid? I bet I can still do it now.” Petunia readied herself to do a cartwheel. It didn’t go well. And the china cabinet would never be the same. But the good thing was: they had plenty of bandages since by the end of the first day, all three were bruised, swollen, banged up, and in Vernon’s case, missing a tooth.

**-o0o-**

Wednesday, June 19th, 1996

The next morning, during breakfast, the doorbell rung. It was Chester, the non-descript van, and another van with furniture in it to replace the broken items from the day before. Petunia was quick to say she wasn’t sure if this was the style she wanted as the furniture being replaced was the same type that was broken. Chester had anticipated that and handed her a catalog with instructions to call them up for replacement items any time a like item got broken.

Chester also brought with him a medic who quickly healed the family of their aches and pains, saying his products were part of some cutting-edge medical technology breakthroughs that allowed them to heal their wounds as quickly as they do. Cuts were not healed right away, but did go down significantly and were gone in two days.

Chester put a VHS tape into the family player and showed them the dailys from the shoot yesterday. The family saw about 20 minutes of footage showing furniture being broken and faces being smacked. He did offer a few suggestions on how Vernon and Dudley could do better with their stunt shots. And he had a few ideas for Petunia as well.

This process lasted for several months. Vernon and Dudley never got any better than the first day. The same with Petunia. They broke a lot of furniture, over and over. Not fake furniture, but the real stuff.

Each time after a shoot, Chester and the Tri-S production crew showed up the next morning with suggestions and comments that they were doing great! That the producers love it! The Tri-S Productions executive producers wanted to see more and more. And even though they spent hour after hour trashing their house and abusing their bodies, Chester had to remind them that they needed to do more since quite a bit had to be edited down to episode length.

**-o0o-**

Tuesday, July 16th, 1996:

“Vernon,” started Production Supervisor Nigel Miller.

“Ouch, watch it,” Vernon grunted as the medic put some of that special tape over his left eye to stop the bleeding. “Yes, Nigel?”

“I should have asked this sooner, so apologize for thinking about it late. But I have been wondering what your co-workers have said to you when they see your black eyes, broken nose, and all the cuts you’ve had on your face and hands.”

“I actually had one of the production line assistants in a meeting last week ask me about it. He was going on about why was my nose taped up, why was I missing some teeth, what were all those bite marks on my neck indicating. And you know what I told him? I should have said it was none of his business, but I used your standard line that was in the documentation we signed. I told him: ‘You don’t talk about Fight Club.’ Not sure what that means, Nigel, but no one has asked anything else.”

“Good to hear,” Nigel nodded approvingly. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“What’s the possibility of getting a raise?”

**-o0o-**

Tuesday, July 30th, 1996:

After a few weeks of breaking furniture throughout the house, getting said furniture replaced over and over, and getting their injuries fixed quickly, Vernon, Petunia and Dudley met with the director, Chester over breakfast.

“Dursleys, I have say, all the footage we have so far is fantastic. But…”

“But?” Petunia asked, the latest cut over her eye almost healed.

“It’s getting a little repetitive, see? We don’t want you to be typecast as a one-trick-pony. Do we?”

“Um,” Dudley said. “What do you suggest?”

“Have you thought of doing any silly stunts?”

Vernon and Dudley looked at one another questioningly. Dudley smiled and agreed for the entire family, “Sure.”

**-o0o-**

The next few weeks were busy for Vernon, Dudley, Petunia, and even Piers. The first thing they wanted to do was an improvisation to Guy Fawkes Night. Piers bought quite a few fireworks, repackaged them into a type of landmine with the help of some of the production people, and hid them in the Dursley back yard. Then, with cameras rolling, the three Dursleys began trolling the backyard on their hands and knees to see how many of those “landmines” they could find. Petunia won by finding six of the hidden landmines that tripped when she touched them, popping a bright light in front of her face and exploding some sloppy, slippery, and soft dog shit into her face each time. Petunia was happy to win even if her front teeth did have dog poo stains on them from grinning so much.

Next came a Pepper-off challenge between Piers and Dudley. Each contestant sniffed a bit of pepper up each nostril over and over until they couldn’t stand it anymore. Piers won that.

Not to be outdone, the next challenge was again between Dudley and Piers where they cut an area of their body and then used red pepper spray in one cut and salt in another to see which hurt more and who could stand it the longest. Dudley won that, but only because he’d used the pepper spray on Piers’ arm, and then “accidentally” shot an extra squirt into Piers’ eyes. “Fuck you, you bastard,” Piers cried as his eyes were washed out. “You cheated.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dudley grinned, happy that he won. “Get over it.”

Next, Vernon and Dudley had a contest to see who could handle the most weights on a man’s bits. They each wore kilts as the weights dangled below their bits. Vernon won that round, but that had more to do that Dudley didn’t like anyone touching his bits.

Petunia came up with the next challenge. They purchased some outdoor grilling equipment, set up the fire in the backyard, lit the coals, tied the boys to a long metal shaft and began turning them over the coals.

“What the hell are you doing over there, Dursley?!” yelled a horrified man from the house that their backyards connected.

“Oh, hi, Paul!” Petunia yelled back as Vernon turned the two kids over and over. “We were just putting another kid on the barbie!”

Needless to say, the Fire Brigade put a stop to that quick enough.

Vernon was not too happy with the next challenge. That was where they attached a series of rockets on a chair that also had a big balloon attached to it. They then shot the rockets which pushed the chair up into the sky. The rockets shot for about 30 seconds and then stopped, their fuel spent. The chair then began to descend, gaining momentum as gravity exerted itself. Vernon was the designated Chair Operator. He crashed in the rose garden and broke a foot. The rest of his fat saved his life, not that he knew about that since thorns had penetrated many parts of his body.

Not to be outdone, Petunia decided to re-enact a type of scene from the Mary Poppins movie. She took a large umbrella and jumped off the roof. She did break her arm with that stunt but like Vernon, she was in and out of a cast within a week and was good to go for the next stupid stunt.

The last stunt that Piers did was to slide down the greased-up handrail inside the Dursley home. He slid fast and was stopped by his rump jamming next to the knob at the bottom of the stairs. He let out a sigh as the knob had not entered any part of his body which he only realized was a possibility once he had stopped. However, prior to getting off that handrail, Dudley came sliding down without abandon and slammed into Piers which had the unfortunate effect of having the knob enter a part of Piers’ body that he would rather not have mentioned in this story.

And finally, as Piers was resting at home, Dudley had the bright idea to go bungee jumping. However, he picked his second-floor house as the starting point. Fortunately, the plexiglass table shattering under Big D’s weight prevented him from smacking the hard concrete.

**-o0o-**

Thursday, August 8th, 1996:

That Thursday morning Chester showed up to view the dailys. As usual, the family and Chester watched the edited footage from the day before. What stood out was that Chester did not offer any suggestions of what to do next in the house. Instead, he sat on the replaced couch quietly.

“Chester?” Dudley ventured. “See something you didn’t like?”

“Yes, Dudley, I’m afraid I did.” He looked away from the TV and focused his gaze on the family. “I’m afraid I’m not seeing anything new. Anything fresh. Max! You nearby?!”

Max heard his boss from the van and rushed inside. “Yeh, mate?”

“What was your take of yesterday’s footage?”

“Honestly? I saw the same things bein’ done a couple weeks ago. I lost interest.”

“That is what I’m talking about, Dursley family. It is no longer fresh. You can only break furniture so many times before it gets boring.”

“Well,” Petunia began. “Can you think of something new we could do?”

“What about Mechanical Mishaps?” Max suggested. “The boys could have all sorts of mishaps while workin’ on a car or somethin’.”

“No,” Chester said. “Not dramatic enough.”

“Fun with food?” Max suggested.

“Maybe as a backup, but not dramatic enough.”

“How about…”

“I’ve got it!” Chester exclaimed. “It’s got passion! It’s got suspense! It’s got action!”

“Yeah?” Dudley said. “What is it?”

“What would you guys think about doing a staged home invasion? Think about it! That is a stunt and a prank all in one! Say you have some friends that you can convince to do it. You will know it is coming, but not when. That will keep the surprise element of the show. They all rush into the house and the three of you have to fight them off. There is action. You are fighting for your lives. Blood. Broken furniture here done by all the fighters. It’s new. It’s fresh.

“Then, once the action is well under way, the police arrive. They’ll be our fake police. Extras really. They won’t really arrest you. It’s all for the camera. So, our boys show up, stop the fight and that will be the season cliffhanger. It will make sure the audience tunes into the show to see how you all recover from this. What do you say?”

The three Dursleys looked at one another. Petunia answered Chester’s question. “Sounds fun! Let’s do it!”

**-o0o-**

Dudley talked with Piers who quickly agreed. His parents, Roger and Jane also agreed to the staged home-invasion. It sounded like a fun way to work off some aggression. Especially against that asshole, Dursley, for letting that reprobate of a nephew live in his house since he was sure his daughter got pregnant by him last winter.

The two of them next corralled their old fellow-gang member, Dennis Smith. As expected, he wanted to join in the fun and work off some aggression of his own since his girlfriend dumped him recently. Dennis’ father, Rupert, also agreed to join in.

The remaining two members of Dudley’s gang, Malcom Jones and Gordon White were also in on this gig since their girlfriends had dumped them at the same time as Dennis’. No surprise since they were all in a clique. Malcom’s mother, Trudy, also agreed to join since his father was at his girlfriend’s place (had been for the past three months). Gordon’s father, Robert was also in, much for the same reason that Roger Polkiss wanted.

The stage was set.

**-o0o-**

Saturday, August 10th, 1996

That Saturday was slightly overcast as Petunia served up lunch to her family. It consisted of boiled peas, boiled carrots, boiled chicken (including bones since this was England), boiled chips, and boiled lettuce.

Vernon and Dudley were sitting at the table, considering what might happen if they were to eat boiled jerky when the doorbell rang. Petunia went to see who it was, but the door slammed open as soon as she turned the knob, breaking the crappy door chain. The door itself broke Petunia’s nose. As she fell back, blood flowing down her face, Piers, Dennis, Malcom, and Gordon rushed in, yelling that they were going to kill Dudley. Roger, Robert, and Rupert were next to rush into the house looking for Vernon and a little payback. Trudy and Jane rushed in, saw Petunia getting off the floor with blood running down her nose and went to help.

Petunia was first to respond with a right hook to Trudy, and a kick to Jane’s knee.

Dudley picked up a plate of boiled food and threw it at Gordon, hitting him dead center in the face with really hot food which would leave burn marks for some time. Malcom got the plate itself thrown at his head which also impacted and drew blood from a scalp wound. Dennis ran into a much-slowed Malcom and the two of them went down in a heap. Piers jumped over his dead-weight gang and attacked Dudley with a bottle he brought. He hit the side of the table to break it. It broke all right. However, the bottle was plastic, and the liquid splattered everywhere. Dudley charged at the gang members.

Vernon, on the other hand, backed up from the table as the 3-R’s came at him. One thing the past few months had taught him: he could handle a little pain. Robert threw a punch. It impacted Vernon and Vernon at least managed to roll with the punch to move to another room where the following Robert, Rupert, and Roger dutifully followed right where Vernon wanted them to. They again came at him and he pulled down the 16th China Cabinet on them. There was much crashing, and yelling, and cursing.

The fighting continued for another five minutes. Fighting does take a bit out of a person, but these combatants really wanted to ham it up, so to speak. One thing was for sure, it was a rumble.

A dog who was out investigating a good place to take a dump stopped by #4 to see what all the fighting was about. The dog picked up the negative emotions and started wailing for a few seconds before running off.

A neighbor heard all the ruckus and didn’t like the open door and the sounds of trouble. He called the police, and they showed up, sirens wailing. Squad cars showed up and more police rushed into the house, batons drawn and freely used.

Soon, all the people were on the ground, either out, or close to it. There were black eyes, broken furniture, holes in walls, loose teeth on the floor, and enough blood to make it unclear who it came from. Everyone had open cuts and were bleeding.

**-o0o-**

In the lockup, after all the combatants had been patched up as best they could, Piers’ dad turned on Vernon.

“We were told we would be stopped by the fake police, Dursley. These are not fake police, dumb shit! These are the real deal!”

“I don’t understand,” Vernon muttered through his healing mouth. “We weren’t supposed to be arrested.”

“Well, we are! What are you doing about it?!”

“I don’t understand,” Vernon said again, not realizing what had just happened.

**-o0o-**

Sunday, August 11th, 1996

Mrs. Figg turned on her telly. The excitement of what happened in the neighborhood yesterday was getting to be too much. Fortunately, that was yesterday’s news.

At least, that was what she thought. She quickly saw and heard things that absolutely shocked her. Honestly!

Main anchor, Anne Hathaway (no relation) sat at the desk as the news opened. Tapping her pieces of paper on the desk, she read from the teleprompter. “The top story today: A home invasion was thwarted by quick-thinking local family! More on this story from our ace reporter at the scene. Tom?”

The news scene opened with a caption under Tom Selleck (no relation) indicating he was on Private Drive, near where the home invasion had been repelled yesterday. “Thanks, Anne. As shocking as this is to believe, a home invasion was thwarted by the home’s family! Here’s what we know. Yesterday around lunchtime, the Dursley family was sitting down to lunch when apparently four boys, three men, and two women broke down the front door of the Dursley home. The men, women and boys then began trading blows with the Dursley family members, one Vernon Dursley, Petunia Dursley, and Dudley Dursley, the 16-year old son. The Dursley family fought back, using frying pans, chairs, cutlery, antique clocks, even the railings on the stairs that had been broken off. With me is neighbor Rodrick Bennings, of #9 Private Drive. Rodrick, what did you see?”

“Hi Tom. Um, I tell you, it was horrible. I was outside having to pick up the poo that Mrs. Kimbal’s dog always leaves on my yard when I heard the door crash open and then the sounds of lots and lots of fighting. I think someone must have been dying in there so I went ahead and called the police. They showed up real fast like, and they rushed inside and I heard the sounds of even more fighting. It sounded so bad, like bones were being broken.”

Tom looked back at the camera, his expression somber. “Thank you, Mr. Bennings. Now with me is Inspector Williams who has more on this case. Inspector?”

Inspector Williams was a man of medium height, balding, thin, had a hawk-like nose under two intense eyes. He looked like he needed a shave.

“Thank you, Tom,” Inspector Williams said in a deep voice. “At approximately 12:30 yesterday, an altercation took place at the Dursley residence. Multiple parties were involved, fighting ensued, and the police were called in. Our officers arrived on scene to find those parties not already unconscious still fighting. Our men moved in to stop all fighting, but resistance occurred which was met with equal and usually better-trained force. All parties were arrested, taken to the hospital for evaluation, and then to the station house where we have proceeded to speak with everyone.”

“Do you have any motives in the case?” Tom inquired.

“Yes. What we have been able to piece together is that apparently, Dudley Dursley had a gang when he was younger. All the teens involved in the altercation yesterday were in this same gang. However, young Mr. Dursley was sent to a private school for a few years but came back earlier this year. We have been able to ascertain that the other members of his old gang never got over the fact that he had gone to private school in the first place. They were resentful of Dudley and wanted to take revenge. That was the reason for the fight relating to the juveniles.”

“What was the reason with the adults?” Tom pressed.

Inspector Williams answered immediately. “From what we can find out so far, all three male adults who assaulted the elder Mr. Dursley, Vernon, all had daughters older than the boys involved. Each of their daughters were or are currently pregnant. All three of the men thought that Vernon’s son, Dudley, had gotten each daughter pregnant and wished to express their displeasure.”

“Is that a true assumption?” Tom looked for confirmation of some juicy gossip.

“No,” replied Inspector Williams. “Two of the girls had gotten pregnant last fall while Dudley was still in boarding school. The other girl was interviewed this morning in her delivery room. Her response, and I quote, ‘Dudley? You mean the asshole that’s always beating up his cousin? Really? You think I would be interested in him? C’mon. Look at my legs! I can do a lot better than him. The guy’s a total dink!’ We also interviewed Dudley about these allegations, and he also denied them while at the same time wishing it was actually true. In both cases, we believe the responses we obtained.”

“What about the women who attacked Petunia Dursley?” Tom tried one more time for some juicy tidbits.

“The two intruding women were questioned. They are the mothers of two of the boys also involved with the home invasion. Apparently, they just didn’t like Petunia Dursley and wanted to knock her around a bit. The injuries that Petunia sustained indicated that the two women knocked her around more than just a little bit. She has a concussion, a broken nose, black eyes, and she will never see correctly out of her left eye again.”

“Wow,” Tom expressed honestly. “Was the intent to murder this family?”

The Inspector shook his head. “No, we suspect murder was not intended. But rage was a factor in how much fighting happened. We are building a case against them right now so any additional information from the public is always appreciated.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Tom replied, then turned to the camera. “The Dursley Home Invasion was a tragic event in an otherwise quiet neighborhood. A neighborhood where neighbor knew neighbor. However, there is still one more disconcerting bit of news. Apparently the Dursley nephew is missing. No one has seen him in over a year. A boy almost as old as his cousin, Dudley. Rumor from some of those I’ve spoken around here is that the nephew ran away from an abusive home. Back to you in the studio, Anne.”

**-o0o-**

Multiple investigations and outcomes came out of the Dursley Home Invasion, as it was called in the media again, and again, and again. Usually with new “unearthed” videos that appeared somehow for the news crews to run in primetime.

The four boys who broke into the Dursley home were all sent to St. Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys until they were legally adults. Their parents who had participated in the home invasion did not receive jail time as it was their first offense each. They ended up paying fines, performing public restitution of some sort, and enjoyed the scorn of the remaining neighbors for years to come.

Inspector Williams’ follow up to all the parties’ statements found that the Tri-S Production Company was not in London. Nor could he find any trace that it had been there. Or that it existed. And if it had ever existed, no one had ever heard of it. That was a dead end on that end, but it opened a new case, as the Dursley family had somehow acquired money and new furniture all summer long. A check of their bank accounts showed some irregularities. He needed to get others involved with that.

**-o0o-**

Vernon dropped Dudley off at school on his way to the office. While he did have some new scars, he was the man of the house and had to take care of things. They would get through this somehow. Vernon arrived at his normal time, pulled into the parking lot, went inside and headed for his office. On the way, he grabbed a cup of black coffee and about 20 packets of sugar. He still missed the good old days with sugar cubes instead of these paper packets.

He went into his office and put his briefcase on his desk. Or at least that was his intention. Instead, coffee cup to his lips, he stopped mid-way into his office when he saw something ominous.

It was the boss.

“Vernon,” Mr. Grunnings said calmly. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. Smith of the Smith firm. They are tax attorneys.”

Uh-oh.

“Imagine my surprise when Mr. Smith called me this morning, Vernon. Called me at home. On my unlisted number. Interesting fact is: they have access to a whole lot of information. Some information even I didn’t have.”

Uh-oh again.

“Turns out a client of theirs has invested in our company, and they don’t like the negative publicity you have given us with your family lifestyle, Vernon. Fighting your neighbors over this or that? Not the best thing you can be doing with your time, Vernon. Do you see where I am going with this yet, Vern?”

“Uh… no?”

“Ah. Bluntness then. You are bad for business. If I fire you outright for that, you have recourse with governmental means. I do not wish to do that. However, my good friend Mr. Smith here tells me you have not filed taxes on the funds you have received for care of your nephew for the past 15 years. If you do not want that bit of news getting out to Inland, then you will accept being fired here and now, with cause.”

“But… what would the cause be?” Vernon tried desperately to think of another place he could go work.

“Why, fighting with management, of course.”

“What? I’ve never!”

“Actually, you have. Three days ago. Remember when Jerry came out of the lavatory while you were going in? You bashed him good on the nose with the door.”

“That was an accident!”

“Not with your track record, it’s not. Besides, your comment to Rajesh Neeja a few months ago made the rounds. You recall that comment, don’t you? It was: ‘You don’t discuss fight club’.”

“What?”

“Circumstances are not looking good for you. You’re sacked, Dursley. Clean out your desk. Maureen will be here in a few minutes with your final check and a paper to sign. We won’t talk to Inland about your lack of tax payments relating to funds you got to care for your nephew, and you won’t counter our sacking you. Oh, and do have a nice day, Dursley. I know I will.”

**-o0o-**

Vernon drove home in a stupor. He was fired. With cause. How was he going to find a job now? He had his final check in hand, and had some savings, but that as all. That was not even close to what he needed to retire on.

He entered the house. Petunia’s was cleared of concussion protocol by the doctor, but she wasn’t back to normal he could tell. The kitchen was filled with smoke. Again. He knew it was due to her not being able to see right out of her left eye.

“Vernon? What are you doing home? Don’t mind the smoke, dear. I know when I have to take it easy with the cooking. I’ll just boil everything for the time being.”

**-o0o-**

“Vernon,” Petunia said, “how are we going to live without you working?”

“Oh, don’t fret, Pet. I’ll find something.”

“And if you don’t? What then? How will we make the utilities? And pay for food? Dudley is still a growing boy.”

“I’ve already started putting out feelers, Pet.”

“Yes, well, until we know something, we will have to make some hard decisions. I will have to take back all the sweets to the store for a refund.”

“Pet!”

The phone rang. Petunia answered. She spoke with the person on the other end for a few minutes, agreed to something, then hung the phone up, and sat back down with Vernon.

“That was child protective services. They were wondering if we would be interested in taking in a foster child for a few years until she is old enough to be on her own. We will get a small amount for her care along with funds to take care of her.”

“How much?” Vernon’s greed flared.

“About 5,000 pounds a month. Since you are not working, I went ahead and agreed to it. A caseworker will be here later today with the young lady.”

“What is this girl’s problem? Why is she in foster care?” Vernon wanted to know.

“The caseworker didn’t go into specifics, but did volunteer that the young lady’s parents were arrested and she was left without any family to take her in. That she was in private schooling before all this happened. When they come by today, don’t bollocks this up, Vernon. We need the money.”

“Yes, dear.”

**-o0o-**

Dudley made it to his first class. He sat down near the front, which was unusual for anyone that knew him or had seen where he sat in all previous classrooms in the past. He was near the front this time as it was less walking. His leg still hurt.

He had arrived at school, hobbling on the crutches. Some kids showed compassion. But most of them showed hostility to him. He didn’t want any further trouble so he steered clear of all the kids he could.

“Mr. Dursley?” said his English teacher, Donald Applegate, a mid-30’s looking man who wore plaid shirts, tan slacks and had a thin blonde moustache.

“Yeah?” Dudley replied.

“You are wanted down in the office. Take your things in case you are there longer than expected.”

Dudley groaned. The administrative office was on the second floor and there was no elevator in this building. Grunting, he got up, collected his books and headed for the administrative offices, or as it was also known as, the Principal’s office. It took him about 10 minutes and only two stops. He opened the office door and shuffled in, expecting to be told he was being expelled.

“Ah, Mr. Dursley,” greeted the Assistant Principal, Richard Branson (no relation). “Thank you for coming down to the office. I would like you to meet a new student. This is Miss Millicent Bulstrode.”

Dudley was a big boy. He had known that his entire life. That was what allowed him to keep his gang under his control. Being tall and also being big were important when putting together a group of individuals whose sole aim was to use physical means. The girl he met in the office was taller than he was. And bigger. And not in a soft way of being bigger.

Oh no. She had man-hands. Or, more to the point, man-handling hands. She looked square of face, broad of shoulder, and muscular in the arms as if physical activity was not a stranger. Her hair was just past the neckline, curly, brown, and thinning as if she were going prematurely bald like his English teacher. Most people would ignore the thinning hair anyway, instead focusing on what looked like facial stubble around her heavy, jutting jaw. It wasn’t stubble, he knew. He just knew it.

Her eyes were blue; and they were not kind. They spoke volumes in and of themselves. They had seen cruelty. Or, more like, they had witnessed the same man-handling hands do some cruelty. He had seen those eyes before.

“As a relatively new student yourself, you have been volunteered to show our new student around,” Mr. Branson smiled at the young students. “You know, show her the ropes as you young people say.”

Dudley looked at Millicent, who in turn looked at him. She took his measure, going to the top of his head down to the sock covering the cast around his foot.

She smiled at Dudley. “He’ll do,” she commented to Mr. Branson.

“Ah, it’s settled then. We’ll make sure your schedule is the same as Mr. Dursley’s,” the Assistant Principal drone said with a satisfied smile. Moments later, he handed her a paper with her classes.

“Wrestling?” she said with an arched eyebrow.

“Yes, Mr. Dursley selected Wrestling as one of his classes for this year. It is an all-boys class. Do you wish for another class during that period?”

“Shit no,” Millicent boomed. “Sounds like fun. But my little boyfriend here won’t be up for wrestling class until he gets out of that cast.”

“Understood, Miss Bulstrode,” Mr. Branson nodded in agreement. He handed her another slip of paper. “This is a note for the instructor that Mr. Dursley will be unable to participate in class until he is better. We’ll let you decide when he will be in shape for that.”

“Sounds about right,” Millicent scanned the rest of the classes. She then looked at Dudley. “Okay, listen up, boyfriend. I know you should be the one to carry my books and all that crap, but you hobbling around on those sticks is going to make it hard. So I’ll carry the books and you keep up. Meanwhile, I’ll keep the awful bullies away who beat you up. Mr. Branson here told me all about that gang of hoodlums that beat you up a couple weeks ago.”

“Um, I already have a girlfriend,” Dudley started.

“I know. You’re looking at her. Got it?”

“There is this girl, her name is Stacy…”

“GOT IT?!”

Gulp. “Yes, dear.”

**-o0o-**

“Dudley?” said a soft, feminine voice near the end of the day.

He turned around from his open locker. He nearly fell since he hated those damn crutches, but he stayed on his feet. He saw the most amazing sight he could ever hope to see. It was Stacy Johnson. And she was talking to him!

“Stacy?” he said, his mouth almost forgetting to form words.

“I heard about what happened to you and the, um, broken leg and all.”

“Yeah, it was nasty business, I tell you,” Dudley managed to get out. His Stacy was talking to him!

“I just wanted to say how glad I am that you aren’t any more hurt than you were,” she said. Her sympathy was manna from heaven!

“Thanks, Stacy.”

“And I’m real glad you now have a girlfriend that can take care of you.”

“Thanks.” Wait. What?! Girlfriend?!

“Hey, Stacy,” baritoned a new, not-in-a-million-years feminine voice.

“Hi, Millie! Now that shade really goes with your eyes. I told you it would.”

“Thanks for letting me try that color,” Millicent smiled at the much smaller and more breakable girl.

“Oh, my pleasure. I think your Dudley will like it. When you told me you and he were girlfriend and boyfriend this morning, I knew it was a match made in heaven. You two are too much of a good match not to be together.”

Wait! What?! Dudley’s mind raced to keep up.

“I can’t wait for my Dudley to take me out like a proper gentleman, right Dudley?”

Wait! What?!

“Dudley!”

“Yes, dear. Whatever you say.”

“Nice. You have him trained already,” Stacy beamed approval to the much larger girl.

“That I do,” she stated smugly, leaning down and planting a kiss on the top of her shorter boyfriend’s head.

**-o0o-**

Dudley sat down at the kitchen table. His mother, sporting her gauzed eyepatch, heard him rather than saw him. She turned around. “What’s wrong, Diddums?”

Shock still in his body, he answered truthfully while on automatic pilot. “I have a girlfriend at school.”

“That’s good,” her mother beamed. Some good news, finally!

“She said she is my girlfriend until the end of time.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Petunia hoped nervously.

“When is the end of time?”

“Sweetie, your father and I have some news. He lost his job and to make ends meet, we have to take in a boarder.”

“That’s fine. I’ll sleep in the yard.”

“You will not!” she shot back. “Your bedroom is in fine condition. You will be staying there. In the meantime, we have cleaned up the second bedroom for our boarder. We will be having a young lady stay with us as her parents are in prison or something. Maybe you can get to know her.”

Dudley began to waken from his stupor. “I’ll try. It’s not like this day can get any worse.”

The doorbell chimed an hour later. Petunia answered it and met the young lady in question and her caseworker. Dudley and Vernon waited in the family room to meet the young lady. They rose as Elizabeth Winters, the caseworker entered while carrying a suitcase. Behind her came the young lady followed by Petunia.

“Millicent?” Dudley said with a slight tremor of fear.

“I’m staying here, Mrs. Winters? Nice!”

“You are, Millicent. Now remember, feel free to call me should you need anything. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley have my number.”

“I think I’m going to like staying here,” Millicent grinned.

“That’s good, dear,” Mrs. Winters replied, getting the Dursley parental signatures on some paperwork. “Now remember, Mrs. Dursley, Millicent needs her sleep. And she is currently on a special diet. She needs all the protein she can get. I will be checking up on Miss Bulstrode in a few days to see if your fostering skills are up to code.”

Petunia escorted Mrs. Winters to the front door, said the obligatory good-bye and went back to the family room. Dudley was in a passionate embrace with Millicent. Well, more like Millicent was in a passionate embrace. She was definitely holding Dudley from getting away.

“Ah,” Petunia broke the otherwise slurping silence. Vernon was too shocked to say anything. “Millicent? I take it you have already met my son, Dudley?”

She broke the kiss and Dudley panted for air. Millicent turned to Mrs. Dursley. “Oh yes. We met today. It was love at first site. Well, more like I knew he wouldn’t break in half when we kissed.” Quiter, “Not like poor Roger, poor bastard.”

“So, ah,” Vernon started. “How long have you been in the foster system?”

“Since September 1st last year. My parents got picked up in some sort of government raid. They’re in jail or wherever making restitution and I’m out here in the real world learning to make something of myself.”

“So what have you learned in the last year?” Petunia motioned for everyone to sit down.

“I’ve learned to milk cows, cut and bale hay, mend fence, head-butt a Billy goat, and…”

“I’m sorry, dear, but head-butt what?”

“A Billy goat. But in all honesty, he started it first.”

“I see,” Petunia clearly didn’t see but wasn’t going to allow that topic to be expounded on. “So you were on a farm?”

“Yep.”

“Did you like it?”

“Oh, I loved it.”

“Then may I ask why you aren’t there still?”

“I think the Reyburns thought I was a little rough around the edges.”

“Because of the Billy goat incident?”

“Oh, they didn’t care about that. Thought it was funny actually. No, it had to do with some literature I read while there. About the Olympics. I’d never heard of it, yeah? And then I read about what some of these women could do. It was eye opening. So I decided I was gonna be an Olympian.”

“What sport?” Dudley inquired.

“Multiple sports. Weight lifting, wrestling, discus, javelin, boxing. Maybe I’ll look into the decathlon as well. Anyway, the Reyburns might have gotten a little upset when I made dinner that following weekend.”

“Why would they have gotten upset?”

“I butchered a cow and cooked it. That was dinner. I think they may have been saving that cow for something else. Not sure. Mrs. Winters didn’t tell me.”

“Ah,” Petunia continued the conversation. “And this happened recently?”

“Oh, no. It happened last January. They called Mrs. Winters on Sunday morning and by that evening I was on to the next foster location.”

“And where was that?” Vernon wanted to know.

“St. Brutus’ Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys,” Millicent replied honestly. “That’s where I learned to cook in a cafeteria, make a shiv, and hotwire a car.”

“I thought that school was for boys only,” Petunia pointed out slowly as if to a dense child. Kind of like talking with Dudley at times. And Vernon.

“Oh, it is. I was originally sent to a criminal school for girls. St. Janice’s. I was only there for a few days though. They thought I was too tough to be there. So they sent me to St. Brutus.”

“Then why aren’t you still there?” Petunia tried to connect the dots.

“Oh, they thought I was too tough to be there as well, so they decided to send me to public school. Which is a good thing since I met Dudley. Dudley will be my man now. I expect breakfast early in the morning. A pound of bacon, six eggs, and 2,000 calories of carbs. Any kind. Am I understood?”

Vernon got to his feet with an angry expression. No little tart was going to tell him what to do. “Look here,” he started, pointing his finger.

Millicent grabbed the finger, yanked it upwards to break it and then used the force of her wrists to bring Vernon to his knees so she could look down at him, eye to eye. “Breakfast will be at 6:00 AM. Every day. Am I understood?”

“Yes…” Petunia replied while Vernon grunted a form of yes while in pain.

“Wonderful! That will give me time to get Dudley up and out of bed each morning. He’s going to need the extra calories as well. Make him a pound of bacon too. After all, I’m going to need a sparring partner every day. And night,” she winked sexily at him. Or as sexily as a mound of muscle could do that.

Dudley shivered in fear. He wanted to cry. But he couldn’t show fear in front of a larger predator. She would devour him. Literally.

**-o0o-**

The next day, while the kids were at school, two police detectives showed up at the Dursley home to discuss how the case against the neighbors that had burst into their home was going. While there, another detective showed up with a warrant for Vernon’s arrest.

“Why am I being arrested?”

“Your bank account has shown significant transactions without any records of taxes being paid on them. You are under arrest for tax evasion.”

“But that was for a show I tell you. That money was to pay for the broken furniture.”

“So… money laundering you think?” one of the detectives said to the other.

“I can’t prove money laundering,” the new detective said to the other two. “I can prove tax evasion.”

**-o0o-**

“Hey, Tubbo,” said a very large, very intimidating man in the same cell as Vernon. “What are you in for?”

“Triple murder,” Vernon snarled.

“Haw!” laughed the guard walking by the cell. He looked into the cell with the two inmates. “Dursley there was arrested for tax evasion. Triple murder my ass.” The guard left.

“I don’t like it when someone lies to me,” the very large, very intimidating man narrowed his eyes.

“Yes, well, I was just trying to establish a pecking order here in the slammer, you know. I’m in for tax evasion even though I was framed.”

“I can live with someone who didn’t pay their taxes. Stick it to the man and all, I get it.”

“That’s what I did, then. Tax evasion. That’s all I’m in for.”

“Haw!” laughed the same guard walking by the cell again. “The only thing? Really? What about the missing nephew you had in your care? Or the bloodstains in his room, which between you and me, Bubba, was actually the cupboard under the stairs. This asshole put a mattress and blanket in there and had done with it. Only tax evasion, my ass.” The guard left again.

“I don’t like child abusers. My dad abused me and look where I am now. Oh no,” Bubba said, cracking his knuckles in anticipated necessary violence, “I don’t like child abusers at all.”

**-o0o-**

On a magic mirror in a land far enough away to avoid extradition, Vernon’s head could be seen going down to his hands. As that happened, the view changed to a grinning Bubba. The mirror then fragmented and showed static pictures of Petunia, Dudley, Vernon, Bubba, Millicent, and the Tri-S logo in the bottom corner.

Remus Lupin moved to stand in front of the monitor. He tapped the mirror with a small stick that had a foam finger on the end. It was a representation of the middle finger. Remus was dressed like he had been while teaching at Hogwarts. That was expected. After all, he was in class.

“And that is how you do a time-delayed, multi-involvement, multi-layer prank, Mr. Potter. Do you have any questions prior to starting your OWL in pranking?” Remus said with some smugness.

“Remus,” Harry said with a grin. “That was bloody BRILLIANT! I loved it! That was the nicest present I ever got.”

“Well, I did have some missed birthdays to make up for.”

“That was better than a broom I got,” Harry sniffed with satisfaction, winding the mirror back to see the horrified expression of Dudley finally getting a girlfriend.

“Hey!” Sirius said loudly, while not really meaning it since he wanted to see Dudley’s expression again as well.

“Class? Any other questions?” Remus said to the room’s other occupants.

“Watching that prank made me hot. What time does the teacher get off? And can I watch?”

“Tonks!” shouted both Sirius and Remus, but for different reasons.

“I have a question, Mr. Lupin.”

“Go ahead, Account Manager Bloodstone.” Remus shot a: ‘I’ll Get You Later’ look at Tonks, who only winked in silent reply.

“As interesting as it was to watch them be vilified in the press and by public opinion, why not just financially ruin them as your ‘prank’?”

“But don’t you see? He has done that and more!” Harry answered, still grinning wildly at the mirror.

Bloodstone didn’t see. “I don’t see how. The Dursley matriarch still has her house. She still has access to funds.”

“Allow me to extrapolate what happened here, Professor Lupin,” Harry said.

“By all means, student Potter” Remus said, sitting next to his girlfriend.

“Vernon has lost his job, with cause. That means he does not get any assistance from the government until he finds a new job on his own. Further, he has been arrested and is sharing a cell with a Bubba Major, who I am to understand is a serial bastard who likes to break people’s limbs. That means he will be abused for as long as they are together.

“Meanwhile, Dudley has been beaten up by all his friends. He is still injured. He has the attention he wanted, and even though he has funds in his account, he now has a pureblood girlfriend who will spend all of it in a short amount of time.

“Petunia also has sustained injuries to her ego and while she liked to gossip about everyone, she is now going to be gossiped by everyone in return and she will not like that. But she needs to stay there and take it since she has no work skills and no income other than that of being a foster parent to Dudley’s girlfriend, Millicent. Petunia will actively ensure Dudley stays with his new girlfriend for as long as possible. That will forestall Petunia having to find a real job.

“No, if we had taken all their finances away, true it would have pushed them out of that house, but they would have been able to survive better as they would have had public opinion not against them and might even have been looked upon with pity. Now, no one pities them or wants to be near them.”

“Other than Bubba?” Bloodstone connected all the dots.

“Other than Bubba,” Remus answered.

“You have turned their lives into a living hell.”

“Yes! And… we got to record it! This is going to be my new patronus memory! As well as something I’m going to want on VHS to watch over and over.”

**-o0o-**

Harry did get his VHS wish. And he eventually converted it to DVD. Then crystal. Sometimes when he was in a funk, he would pull out these recordings and watch until he felt all better. It usually took a couple times of watching Dudley get the fist to the eye as well as Piers getting stomped on his groin before that funk was replaced with a better feeling: satisfaction.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
Thank you all for reading and leaving comments! This chapter took a lot longer than I thought it would. No betas were harmed in the creation of this chapter. However, I did have to miss watching Suicide Squad on HBO in order to write this chapter.

We are getting near the end.


	21. Shafting Various

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of shafting

**Author’s Note:**  
It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

Dobby’s story (aka Shafting Yvette):

Boris Schmitt and Yvette Esqre had staked out a café where Harry Potter had last been seen only a day earlier. They were waiting for him to make another appearance. They were in Morrison, Colorado, a place locals loved to go but which these two internationals considered a dump.

They were sure Mr. Potter would be back as that was part of his habit. Go to a town, spend a week there, then move on. They estimated he had been in Morrison for about three, possibly four days. There was still time for Yvette to ensnare him again, as long as she got close. True, Mr. Potter had been ensnared by Yvette the first time they met, but Boris and his superiors were convinced that Mr. Potter had been so smitten that he must have misunderstood what they were asking of him when they said to put down an account number.

As it was, they really needed to get that money. The ICW was in deep shit. Membership fees were down. There was talk of liquidation of the services. Soon, Boris would not get a paycheck. All thanks to that kid, Potter.

“Yvette,” Boris whispered to his companion who was sunning herself in an attempt to blend in with the locals (and failing miserably as they knew better than to take rays while sitting up a mile high with no sun screen).

“What is eet?” Yvette didn’t open her eyes. This stake-out was as miserable as the last one.

“I see something.”

She opened her eyes and they looked over at the café from the outside park they were in. She scanned the crowd. “I don’t see Mr. Potter.”

“I don’t either. But… look over there. The tall gentleman with the black hat and black glasses. See him?”

“Oui.”

“Every third step is a slight shudder around his left leg, like a ripple…”

“…a ripple of a glamor,” she immediately understood.

“Yes,” Boris agreed.

“Think it is Potter?”

“I am thinking not. He has no reason to hide. To glamor himself away. I think he wants to be seen. No, I think that is a house elf.”

“The reports we have on him say he has hundreds of house elves now.”

“Yes, but his first one has not been seen or mentioned in months. I think this is the elusive Dobby. And look – that snow-white owl up there. It has to be Mr. Potter’s familiar.”

“Intercept and interrogate?” Yvette got her shoes on and placed her black glasses perfectly on her face.

“No. Let me ask: do you know if your vela charms will work on a house elf?”

“Non, I am not sure. They might. I will try it out and see. If not, worst that happens is that Mr. Potter will know we are at the café looking for him. He is likely to be moving very soon anyway so is likely not coming back.”

“Agreed. If you can get that house elf to take you to Mr. Potter, then do so. Give me a sign and I will wait for your return. We need to make this happen, Yvette. We do this or else we won’t be able to pay for the house with the heated pool.”

Yvette made her way to the café in time to open the door for the glamored individual to exit with a couple trays of coffees and a few bags of pastries.

“Dobby says thanks,” Dobby the glamored house-elf said with a bag of pastries being held by his teeth.

Yvette took the pastry bag and a tray of drinks from him.

“Please,” she said. “Allow me to help you. I can help you carry these things to wherever you are going.”

“Well, Dobby doesn’t know…” Dobby said, thinking it through.

She upped her vela affect. A barista burned himself while not even noticing it as he looked at the form of a goddess.

“I tell you what. I will help you as far as you let me. There may be more doors you need to open,” she suggested.

“Welllll, Dobby guesses that will be okay,” Dobby agreed, adjusting the rest of the bags of pastries with the other cups of hot java.

“Wonderful,” Yvette beamed. “I wouldn’t want you to drop any of these drinks or bags of sugar and carbs. My, there certainly are a lot of them here. Are you going to a party where your master will be?”

“Yes,” Dobby replied. “It’s this way.” He began walking down the street and then up an alley. As she fell in step behind Dobby, she gave Boris a thumbs-up signal.

Boris knew to wait. He knew she was an excellent operative. She had as much invested in this as he did. Literally.

Dobby and Yvette walked a short distance up the alley to the back stairs of a B&B. They went the 23 steps up to the second floor. Yvette couldn’t wait to see the look on Potter’s face when she put him under her allure again. This time she would make sure he gave her everything. Dobby opened the door and she entered a room that had incense burning, bead curtains hanging, lava lamps, bean chairs, and the music of Chrome Sitar by Futuristic Dragon playing on an old record player. Fully in the room, she didn’t notice the door close behind her.

There were seven other house elves sitting around the room, wearing black shirts and wearing black berets. Several even had on black sunglasses. The shades were drawn. The smoke was even thicker near the smoke pit that had somehow grown out of the middle of a wooden floor. ‘How had these elves not triggered the fire alarms?’ she wondered.

“Yo, Dobs, what’s this?”

“Coffee run. Plus Dobby picked up a veela.”

“Nice,” crooned another house elf the same size as Dobby, but in a deeper voice.

“Groovy, baby,” another beret and glasses-wearing house elf said.

“Dobby?” Yvette said with a little irritation. “Where is your master? You said he would be here.”

“Dobby not lie, evil veela. Dobby’s master is here. Dobby’s master is: bongos!”

“BONGOS!” yelled the rest of the house elves, pulling out bongos and beginning to play them with the full lack of musical talent they all had. It was awful. It was worse than awful.

But…

It had the desired effect. It was a bad affect Yvette soon knew. A very, very bad affect. Now she knew why all the councils had tried over the centuries to stamp out the evil bongo playing of the house elves.

Yvette’s legs began to shift. They began to gyrate to the sound of music that almost was, if there had been a beat. Or a tune. Or anything other than 8 house elves wailing away on bongos that looked as if they had been bought at a KOA Campground souvenir shop which in turn had purchased them from a salvage operation decades earlier.

But those house elves loved to play. They played and played.

And Yvette began to move her hips as she danced around the room. She didn’t want to do this, but some outside force was controlling her. Unknown to her perception, one of the house elves transfigured her Giuseppe Zanotti Coline Wings Suede 110mm Sandal stiletto heels to some white, vinyl, knee-high boots. No! Once she saw her reflection in a mirror. Not go-go boots! Not… her mother!

She could not stop dancing. She wouldn’t until the bongos stopped. And she had no idea how long that would be since the house elves had just hopped up using classic Java.

Oh, the humanity!

**-o0o-**

Lazer Owl’s story (aka Shafting Boris):

Hours later, Boris was frantically looking for Yvette and Potter’s elf. The elf was nearby, he was sure of it. Potter may or may not be nearby, but the elf was. Potter’s owl was still sitting atop the B&B. But… why could he not remember what the elf looked like. Or where they had gone?! Blast!

Then it hit him. ‘They must be under some house magic,’ he thought. Who could he contact to tear down some house magic, he pondered. Who? Think, Boris! He needed to find Potter and get that money. His mortgage was coming due. And his Lamborghini Diablo sports car would not finance itself. He needed to make a call. Yvette would have to find a way back to the office herself. She was a big girl. He headed for his sports car parked in the lot up the road.

Boris loved his car. Almost as much as he loved himself. The car’s sleek silver lines made him look good when he was driving it. The fact it brought attention to him wherever he took it was the primary motive for buying it. Attention brought power. Power and money. The car was in an outdoor lot. This little provincial town had nothing in the way of garages, but an outdoor lot would do. As customary, he took both handicap spots (since they were larger spots) and parked his car to occupy both spots without leaving enough space for anyone to try parking next to him. Oh sure, he had parking tickets from time to time, but he could afford them.

He unlocked the driver’s door and slid it up.

“Hoot,” chirped a bird overhead. He looked up.

It was that same snow-white owl he had seen earlier. The one that was Potter’s. “Beat it!” Boris snarled, jingling his keys towards the owl. But not just at any owl.

At Lazer Owl.

“Hoot!” HOOT!

“What the fuck?!” Boris shouted in amazement as his keys vaporized. “My keys!”

“Hoot!” HOOT!

“Noooo! My car! My beautiful car!”

Mrs. Diane Kent of Lakewood, Colorado had come to Morrison for an early dinner, intending to spend time in one of her favorite spots near the foothills. She was 75 and rode in a van since she could no longer drive. Well, more like not allowed to drive since she couldn’t see everything she should (like other cars around her for instance). He daughter, Stella, had brought her here for her mother’s birthday. They both were upset when they found that some fucking asshole had taken both handicap spots for his fancy-dancy car. Stella had thought of using some oven spray to leave a message on the car, but hadn’t gone through with it. The thought was there, though. As they made a second sweep of the lot to look for a spot they could fit in, they noticed that the big, expensive sports car seemed to explode for some reason.

The owner was shouting and in tears over his silver burning hulk. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer cocky son-of-a-bitch as far as Diane was concerned.

**-o0o-**

Kung-Fu Toad’s story (aka Shafting Ginny):

Neville had gotten an early birthday present. Sort of. Trevor, his toad had somehow managed to score himself a mail-order bride last September. Neville wasn’t sure how Trevor had ordered the bride, but one day a snow-white owl delivered the package. Trevor took to the new toad that Neville took to calling Teresa. And soon enough, Teresa and Trevor combined to give birth to Trevor Jr. Actually, they combined in Neville’s pond to create several hundred toads, but it was Trevor Jr. that stood out.

This new toad liked Neville and didn’t run away like his dad. Instead, even while a tadpole, Trevor Jr. hung around Neville, saying near his shoulder when his parents would let him leave with Neville when his Neville went to that other place with the noisy bipeds.

Trevor Jr. grew. The third day following a cold snap, his Neville was at that other place with those noisy bipeds. His Neville walked out of a room and this female biped was blocking his Neville’s way.

“Blah, blah, blah, Neville?” Trevor Jr. heard the biped say, although in all fairness, he didn’t care about what anyone other than his Neville said.

“Get away from me, Ginny. I’m not interested.”

What?! His Neville was in trouble?! Kung Fu Toad to the rescue! Tongue-whip! WHICK!

“Ayyyeeiiii!” the biped screamed, holding its injured eye where Trevor Jr. had expertly ninja-tongued it. Trevor Jr. knew he was going to have to give up those ninja references, but he did like reading those adventures of the four ninja toads hiding as ninja turtles. What dedication to their art they had!

**-o0o-**

Cho and Marietta’s story (aka Shafting Cho and Marietta):

The 1995-1996 school year was very different for all the Hogwarts students. Most importantly, there was no more Hogwarts school. Second, the students had been split up. Former Ravenclaw students Marietta Edgecombe and Cho Chang, as well as many other former Ravenclaws like Mandy Brocklehurst, Su Li, and Morag MacDougal ended up transferring to Durmstrang Institute. It was an eye-opening experience for the two older students more so than the younger ones.

They arrived via portkey to the school, and not by train.

They had their possessions cluttered around them and were expected to carry said items to their new rooms instead of having house elves fall over themselves getting them.

Dining was different.

School classrooms were different.

Accents were different.

Paintings sneered at them. For Su Li and Cho Chang, that wasn’t too different than Hogwarts, but it was for the other Anglos that were new to Durmstrang.

But what really set this school apart from Hogwarts and pretty much set the tone for the rest of what was to follow, was what happened the first Saturday in October, 1995. That was the day that school liaison, Amelie Meyer, who was in her final year of school there, spoke with Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe following lunch. She sat down at the table the two of them shared.

“The Headmistress has asked me to get an update of the new students. I am Amelie Meyer. I take it your schoolwork is progressing satisfactorily?” she said in accented English.

“Yes, thank you,” Cho replied.

“It’s not Hogwarts, but it will do,” Marietta groused.

“Is there a problem with the curriculum?”

“Oh no,” Marietta backpedaled. “It’s just there’s a lack of… opportunity.”

“Maybe I do not understand the English implications of the word, opportunity,” Amelie admitted. “Could you explain it for me?”

“It is a bit of an astrological implication,” Cho smirked to her friend.

“We do have an Astronomy and an Astrology department here. Is that what you mean?”

“Oh, no,” Cho said in a wistful voice. “It is more of just looking at the Moon.”

“Ah! The Moon! Yes, I understand now. Lunar movements. I completely understand,” Amelie smiled at them with kindness in her eyes. “I think I may be able to help you. Come with me.”

Reluctantly, but with nothing better to do with their time anyway, they went with the older girl. She took them past the paddock and to the hill nearby with the observatory. Inside was another girl who sat cross-legged under a canopy of stars while outside the sun shone brightly. “This is Astrid Krüger,” Amelie pointed out.

Astrid opened her eyes and saw the newcomers. She said, “They have a heavy infestation of nargles around them.”

Marietta’s self-satisfied grin intensified. “You have a Loony here too!”

Cho’s grin grew like Marietta’s.

“Not quite,” Amelie said. “Astrid is my cousin.”

Another girl came in behind the two former Hogwarts students. Amelie introduced her. “This is Margit König, also my cousin and in my year.”

Another, massively much larger girl came from behind the telescopes. “This is Isabella Schmitt. She is the assistant groundskeeper. She routinely has to shoe the animals and does so by bending the metal at the forge, sometimes by hand,” Amelie introduced. “She is also my cousin.”

“Uh, yeah, about that Loony comment,” Cho said with a little dread.

“Luna Lovegood is also my cousin,” Isabella ground out through clenched teeth. Said teeth were under the beginnings of a moustache. And said moustache was surrounded by muscle after muscle from years of pounding and shaping metal on an anvil with a hammer.

“Oh, shit,” Marietta said for both her and Cho.

“Indeed,” all four cousins said.

“Perhaps my words were a little hasty,” Marietta hedged.

“Maybe here, yes,” agreed Margit with a stronger accent. “But not last year when our cousin was at Hogwarts.”

“I don’t suppose we can work something out regarding this?” Cho hoped.

“As a matter of fact, I think we can,” stated Isabella as she looked at both the terrified girls. “I can use a couple little bitches to man my forge every night for at least three hours from here until you graduate.”

“Um, this is only a temporary solution for us and we may have to transfer at the end of the year. Um, at the end of December and not the end of the school year,” Cho hoped again.

“From NOW until you graduate,” Isabella loomed over the two girls, a puff of smoke coming out her nostrils from the earlier drag of the cigarette she kept magically hidden from her cousins (well, her cousins, siblings, parents, aunts, uncles, teachers, animals, paintings, and house elves if she had to admit).

“Okay,” Marietta and Cho agreed. They later had to vow to it before Isabella in turn agreed not to accidentally do something the two former Hogwarts students really didn’t want her to do with that hammer she always carried around.

Days turned to weeks, and to months. Durmstrang became a lot friendlier with the Hogwarts student transfers in attendance, one professor remarked to another. That same professor knew the reason for it as well: apparently, several Hogwarts girls were interested in the Metallurgy Fine Arts and were assisting Isabella with her craft. That made Isabella a lot friendlier to be around.

Of course, the extra burn salve, muscle rebuilder, skin restorer and hair re-growing potions that the potions classes needed to constantly brew was a small price to pay for Isabella’s happiness. Besides, it wasn’t Isabella who needed those potions.

Regrettably, Marietta’s and Cho’s education took several years longer to complete than they expected as their constant inattention-induced accidents and subsequent potion ingestions and/or infirmary stays had the young women fail crucial class assignments they needed for later NEWT testing and eventual employment. They did manage to pass their NEWTs years after their original fellow classmates, on their third attempt, but by then the job market for what they had trained for had long since dried up. At least in Britain.

On the plus side, since they knew how to shoe anything from a horse to a cow to a rabbit (no mean feat on a rabbit, but they knew how), they were eventually conscripted into the Russian Magistaka for a temporal incursion test back to the time when the Mongols were everywhere riding up and down the continent like some drunk frat boys with swords, ponies, furry hats, and a serious lack of homework to keep them from going out and partying, or as the locals in all the lands they visited would call it: invading. Figuring that Cho could at least fend for herself and take a position as a blacksmith if they were right with the equations, off she went, kicking and screaming all the way until the temporal wave dissipated. Ivan smacked his head as if he forgot something and sent Marietta moments later (also kicking and screaming), saying he figured that Cho might be angsty and miss her friend. Or maybe it was Marietta that was being angsty and missing her friend Cho. Either way, off the two bitches went into a time-stream.

Project coordinator, Ivan Kuznetsov, was later brought before the project director and a table of angry generals who all had their pistols out, round in the chamber, and ready to shoot. He was asked what the hell he was thinking sending two untrained women back into time, regardless if they could shoe a horse or not!

“I did it to make Isabella Schmitt happy,” Ivan replied simply.

Pause.

“Oh,” came an equal simple response in a now-very quiet room by the general who worked the closest with the GRU.

“Ms. Schmitt, you say? Yes, well. I, ah, I can totally relate to you, Ivan. Send her all our love and do let us know if she requires any further assistance from us in the future. Good job, Ivan. Well done. You will get a promotion and a raise for this. Gentlemen? Let’s break for lunch. First round is on me.” Guns put away, all the assembled formerly-glowering men left the room with a friendly nod to Ivan.

**-o0o-**

Augusta’s story (aka Shafting Pettigrew one last time):

August Longbottom sat in her study at Longbottom manor. The Longbottom manor was ancient. It showed wealth. It showed prestige. But according to the recent mail she received, it was going to be shown to new tenants if she didn’t start making her monthly bill payments.

She looked out her window to the Longbottom grounds. There were several greenhouses that produced magical plants for many budding potion masters and their students. That brought in some capital, but more was needed to pay for the upkeep on the house elves. Ever since word of that blasted spew-nonsense, or whatever it was that happened at Hogwarts, made its way through the house elf community, they made it plain that new working conditions were needed or else. The obligatory “or else what?” question from their former Minister incited a small house elf rebellion where none of them brought tea when called, always preferring to wait until the team got good and cold, and then bringing it to the person who called it and pouring it on their heads. Usually in the middle of the night. Therefore, the house elf reform bill had been passed just after the 1994 Winter Solstice.

“What those bloody house elves need with a security detail on the lookout for hidden clothes, I will never know,” Augusta grumbled, looking at the latest “security” bill that the Goblins managed for the House Elf Coalition.

She knew she could simply terminate the House Elf contracts she had at the manor, but to do so would mean she would have to clean this place. And that was a lot of work on her part. She looked around at the estate again. She did not keep or grow magical animals at the estate, so that kind of business was out. Plants. That was all she had. Her Gringotts investments had turned sour recently and her liquid gold would only take her so far.

Augusta knew she was a realist. She summed up the situation: she was boned if she didn’t get a job and pay off these damn bills. Determination taking the place of pride, she put on her fancy clothes, grabbed a hat and scarf, and headed for New Diagon.

The first thing she noticed when she stepped out of the apparition point (located inside Gringotts, in the famous back room – or as the Goblins called it: a closet), paid her fee and left the bank was that New Diagon was busy. Lots of people there. Commerce was certainly not dead. She would have no problem finding a job, she was certain.

An hour later and a dozen rejections in hand, she realized she was having a problem finding a job. While looking around for the next shop to approach that she saw a new story she had never seen before. Its sign stated: Employment Agency. Not sure what to expect, she entered the store to search for the proprietor. It took some time, but she was eventually schooled as to what an employment agency was and how they were there to help Augusta find a job.

“I must say, Mrs. Perkins,” August said. “I am very pleased I came in here as I am in need of a job.”

“Oh, I totally understand, ma’am. And please, call me Stacy. Now what kind of job are you looking for?”

“Oh, I would not be adverse to managing another estate or two, or directing the comings and goings of family members. I’ve been told I can do that easily enough.”

“Hmmm,” thought Stacy Perkins, mother of Sally-Anne. “I don’t have any of those jobs open. Not sure when the last one came open truthfully. I’ll check with the bank though. Something had happen with all those properties that went into receivership.”

“I understand,” said a dejected Augusta. “I guess I could manage a store of some kind. Maybe instruct the staff in what they are doing wrong and how they must fix it or face my wrath.”

Stacy perused her clipboard. “Hmmm, no. I don’t have one of those openings either.”

“Might I inquire as to what openings you do have?”

“I have a litter collector here in New Diagon. The job comes with a pointy stick,” she said, looking at the first (and surprisingly hardest to fill) job on the clipboard.

“I should think not.”

“Okay. How about Soup Dispenser in Outer New Diagon. The job comes with a ladle and a bowl of your own.”

“No.”

“How about Shit Supervisor at Azkaban? The job comes with your own gas mask which you will need as one of the new Dementors has gotten a little gassy. Just between you and me, I hear she is a real pig when it comes to eating shit.”

“Ah, no.”

“Hmmm. Do you have 10-key?”

“What is that?”

“Okay. Moving on. Here’s one! Right up your alley.”

“Yes?”

“Testing Supervisor. Job comes with daily antidotes.”

“That doesn’t sound helpful.”

“Oh, I didn’t read that part right. The antidotes are not for the supervisor, but for the rat. It says here that the Tri-S company has an R&D arm here in New Diagon and they are testing a new type of rat poison. The supervisor will oversee the effectiveness of the poison.”

“That sounds a little uncomfortable, but I can manage that. I accept.”

“Great! Let me walk you over to the shop and introduce you to the R&D guys.”

Augusta was soon talking with none other than George and Fred Weasley. “Gentlemen,” she greeted.

“Hey, Neville’s grandmother! How’s it going?!” Fred pumped her hand in way of greeting.

George took her hat and scarf in his way of greeting. He’d get her hand later. When he had a joy buzzer in his hand.

“This is Augusta Longbottom,” Stacy smiled at the two red-headed scalawags. “She is interested in hearing more about the Testing Supervisor role.”

“Hey, no problem,” Fred said. “He’s the deal. We have a backer who wants to make the most effective rat poison ever made. Only, he’s a bit cheap and doesn’t want to test it on rat after rat.”

George continued, “So what he wants to do is test it on one rat only. Your job will be to ensure the rat is poisoned, allowed to almost die, but not quite, and then humanely bring that rat back from near-death on a daily basis.”

“The owner is cheap; got it,” Augusta confirmed.

“Now this rat is a special rat to the investor. He’s rather fond of this rat in fact,” George nodded to his brother.

“If he’s fond of the rat, why use it in the experiments?”

“Oh, he’s not fond of the rat enough to want to keep it as a pet,” Fred stated. “In fact, he hates rats. He’s just fond of this rat and its silver paw, plus the fact that it can dance on a crank case.”

“It can dance? I haven’t heard of any rats being able to do that,” Augusta insisted.

“I’m sure none others can do that,” George agreed. “Our investor said this one had spent time with the Malfoys and might have even been You-Know-Who’s personal rat servant.”

“Spent time in the dark families, eh,” Augusta’s eyes narrowed.

“Absolutely,” Fred also agreed. “Dark families, doing dark this or dark know what. So… interested in being the Rat Resuscitation Supervisor?”

“I thought it was a different title?” Stacy said.

“We get to change it to whatever we want it to be. Looks better on CVs that way.”

“Gotcha. Augusta, any more questions?”

“So,” Augusta started. “To sum up: this one rat will be poisoned to near death every day and my job is to humanely bring it back from a certain, possibly agonizing death.”

“Correct. Bringing it back will allow us to whip up a new branch of poison.”

“How long is this position going to last?”

“We were told to take our time developing the formula and it will likely take years.”

“And the rat will nearly die once a day?”

“Oh no, we plan for this to be several times a day.”

“Hmmm,” Augusta said aloud. She did need the money, but that was a lot of suffering to witness daily.

“You know,” George said conspiratorially, “I think this rat may have even been part of the Lestrange household at one time.”

PING!

“How many times do you expect to poison the rat per day?”

“We’re thinking 3 or 4,” Fred said.

“Think you can get it up to 6 or 7 times day?” Augusta smirked, thinking of her kids in the hospital.

“That’s an aggressive approach, but one we can certainly shoot for.”

“I’ll do it,” Augusta agreed.

“Great,” George shook her hand, without using the joy buzzer. “Now the antidote works best for the rat if you use this stopper to put three drops in its mouth and then start yelling at it over and over. The louder the better. The more vicious and cruel your remarks the better.”

“You mean like this? Ahem. YOU FUCKING RAT! GET THE FUCK OFF THE FLOOR BEFORE I FUCKING STEP ON YOUR FUCKING HEAD! MOVE IT! SCHNELL! WHERE THE HELL IS MY BRICK?!”

“Wonderful!” Fred smiled, clapping his hands in approval. “You’re hired.” Who knew Neville’s granny had so much repressed anger?

**-o0o-**

Rita Skeeter’s story:

“You’re right, Alison. Tomorrow’s weather does look good. Thanks, Alison. Tom?”

“Thanks, Brenda. In local news, Newcastle University entomologist Byron Curmudgeon has found what appears to be a new form of beetle right here in our hometown. Joining me now is Byron.”

“Thanks for having me on, Tom,” Bryon said. He was the typical professor minus the bushy hair. His clothes were rumpled, his eyes were bright, and his expression in the subject he loved unquestioned.

“My pleasure, Byron. What can you tell us about the new beetle you found?”

“This is very exciting. We have not found a type of beetle like this in decades, centuries even. This beetle may look like any other kind of beetle you can find locally, but it has two distinct differences. First, its markings are unusual and a few look like a hair-tie.”

“A hair-tie? Like what a young girl would wear?” Tom clarified.

“Absolutely. At first I thought this beetle belonged to someone as a pet and they simply drew it on, but the marking is natural. Oh, and the second unusual characteristic: its size it twice that of a standard beetle.”

“Do you have any pictures of this beetle, Bryon?” Tom inquired.

“Better! Here it is!” Bryon chortled holding up an extra-large, hair-tie marking beetle by the pin that he had used to skewer it through its body prior to entombing it in a display case. The beetle’s large, lifeless eyes stared at Tom.

“Whoa!” Tom replied. “That is one ugly bug.”

“I totally agree. This is an ugly bug. Fortunately, it is dead. But I’m sure I’ll find its nest soon.”

**-o0o-**

Molly Weasley’s story:

Her Ronald’s fifth year of schooling had turned out to be a good thing for Molly, she knew. Not only were all of her kids back home where they belonged, except Charlie, but now she had a business and could support the family. She was Headmistress of the Molly Home School. She taught her children, and seven other children.

And her side business of potions, especially the love potions, was an increasing success. It seemed as if everyone was looking for love these days.

All of these thoughts plodded through her head as she painstakingly brewed her latest batch of 2-Day Love Potion. This was her own concoction. It would make those that took it love the person they were looking at for 48-hours straight.

Molly did have concentration. She focused on some things with a ferocious intensity. This was good for a potion brewer who needed that concentration. It did not always allow a person to see the forest for the trees, but it did make sure the grass around the tree in question was of sufficient strength, color, and didn’t have fungus growing through it.

That was why she never noticed the owl that flew in through the arrival window and drop a glowing-red envelope towards her and then rush off.

“HIYA, MOLLY!” Sirius Black’s voice boomed in the kitchen, making her almost screw up the potion she was on. She turned around and saw the howler and knew she was unable to stop the message as her wand was out of reach and she needed to concentrate on the potion.

“JUST WANTED TO SAY I HEARD ABOUT YOUR HOME SCHOOL! GREAT JOB! I HOPE YOUR LOVE POTION SCHOOL DOES WELL! MAKE SURE YOUR SONS MARRY RICH GIRLS! AND IF YOU CAN’T DO THAT, THEN MAKE SURE THEY GET PLENTY OF PRACTICE IN WITH GIRLS NOT RELATED TO THEM! I MEAN, YOU MAY HAVE TO SEND THEM TO MRYTLE BEACH SOON FOR THEM TO GET AN UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT THEY WILL HAVE TO DO TO BE CONSIDERED A MAN! GET IT?! SEND THEM TO MRYTLE BEACH! OR BARRING THAT, SEND THEM TO THE RED LIGHT DISTRICT IN AMSTERDAM! HAVE YOU HEARD OF THAT? I MEAN, YOU AND PHIL WENT TO AMSTERDAM WHEN YOU WERE IN 6TH YEAR, RIGHT?”

“I was dating Arthur then, Sirius!” Molly turned and snarled at the red smoking envelope. When would that bloody message end? She needed her wand!

“YOU REMEMBER PHIL, RIGHT? I JUST LOOKED HIM UP! TURNS OUT HE’S STILL PINING AWAY FOR YOU. HE WORKS AS A RIDE OPERATOR IN MUGGLELAND. YOU CAN FIND HIM IN AT THE TILT-A-MUGGLE. I TOLD HIM YOU HAD 7 KIDS NOW AND YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID TO ME? HE SAID IF YOU AND HE MET UP, HE’D MAKE SURE YOU HAD AN 8TH KID! WOW! IS THAT DEDICATION TO SOME SCHOOL ROMANCE THAT JUST WON’T END, OR WHAT?!”

Molly raced for her wand, grabbed it and shot a blasting curse to the red letter. The letter exploded into confetti which fell to the ground. Annoyed, she returned to her potion and continued her latest batch.

Two weeks later when the batch was ready, Molly took it to a wizarding farmers market and put it for sale on her table. The 10 bottles she made went in almost no time. They had been purchased by notable purebloods in disguise, who also needing some serious influx of money to keep their estates re-warded and armed from the constant ward breech attempts by those rouges in the nation. They planned to use those bottles to entice other women… that was to say, other rich women on the continent into agreeing to marry them and ensuring the pureblood elite men had sway of the women’s fortunes. It was a win-win situation in their books.

However, Sirius’ howler surprising Molly and then distracting her at an opportune moment had a negative effect on that potion. I would later be known as the 48-Hour Love to Hate potion. The men would ingest some as the source and slip the women the other part of the potion as the target (you know, like a roofie), and then let sparks fly! That was the plan. What happened, though, was that the men fell in love with the women they met and the women fell in hate with the men they met. The men would do anything for the women which the women quickly picked up on. The women hated the men for some reason they didn’t understand but would several days later when they found the Love Potion bottles in the men’s clothing that they went to sell to a thrift store. Fortunately, the women did fleece the men for everything they had remaining (not just what they had in their pockets, but forced them to sign away everything they owned back in England) and then kicked them to the curb. Literally. Usually 6 kicks to the rear and kidney did the trick to get the men to let go of their legs and get them to shut the hell up about their undying love.

It was a good thing the 48 hour clause was in effect as the women were that close to checking if that “undying” clause was true or not. As is, two of the men were used for target practice. They would not be able to sit down comfortably for months to come as they needed to heal the muggle way since none of them were that good with healing spells, they didn’t have their wands anyway (they’d been hocked as the insistence of the women), and they had no money to get back to England and go to the hospital there.

Sirius smiled when he read of their plights from the agents watching the fall of the ex-rich Wizengamot members. He knew he’d have to use Molly’s unintentional services again one day. There were still more rich purebloods that needed a good smack down.

**-o0o-**

Binns’ story:

“Sir?” one of the staff asked an obviously tired client. The client was an older gentleman in his early 50’s. He was sitting at one of the patio tables drifting in and out of attention as his family wandered off to do other things in Triple-H.

The man’s eyes snapped open but it still took a few more seconds before they focused on the young staffer. “Hrrmp,” he nearly said. He took a sip of water. “Yes? Do you need something?”

“Pardon my intrusion, sir, but I could not help but notice you look a little tired. I am aware that you and your family checked in three days ago. Do you require any assistance?”

“I appreciate your question, Mr. …” he trailed off.

“Please, Mr. Kirkwood, call me Corey.”

“Thank you. You are right. I haven’t been sleeping well the past couple days. I just can’t get comfortable in a strange environment.”

“I totally understand, Mr. Kirkwood. Would different accommodations help? A softer or harder bed perhaps?”

“No. The room is fine and the bed is fine. It’s just… it’s a strange environment. If you only had some way for me to get some sleep in the room, I think I would gel with this whole castle.”

Corey smiled. “Sir,” he said. “I think I have just the answer you are looking for. We have a special room for people needing some serious sleep. We call it the Binns room, named after a famous professor whose ghost inhabits that room, wink-wink.”

Mr. Kirkwood smiled. “A ghost in the room, eh? Ha, I don’t know how you all do these effects in this castle, but what the hell, I’ll give it a try.”

“Then allow me to escort you to the sleep room. I will make sure your wife knows where you are.”

They walked down a corridor that Rupert Kirkwood had not gone down before. “So what do I do here?” he said when they reached the room.

“Simply lay down on one of the beds in the room. The lights are always dim. In a few minutes, the ghost of Professor Binns will walk into the room and begin talking about historical events that happened with wizards, wink-wink, and goblins, wink-wink.”

“That actually sounds interesting. I’m not sure I will be able to fall asleep listening to something like that.”

“I thought the same thing, Mr. Kirkwood. However, within minutes, you will be asleep. That is the charm of listening to Professor Binns. You will always fall asleep.”

“Okay,” Rupert Kirkwood agreed. “Nothing to lose here. I’ll give it a shot.”

“Very good, sir. I will alert the staff that you are using this room and to check on you periodically. Have a good sleep.”

Rupert sat down on the bed, and kicked off his shoes. Approximately five hours later, Rupert’s eyes opened. He had fallen asleep! It was the best sleep he ever had. And to think, it had all started when the Triple-H hologram started out taking roll call and giving him the name of Rupert Weasley.

**-o0o-**

Sybill Trelawney’s story:

“Momeeeee!”

“Pamela!” an attractive mother retorted to her pre-5 year old child. “What have I said about making a scene,” she hissed, obviously embarrassed.

“But I can’t find Rusty, mommy!” her child cried again, yanking on her hand.

“Can I help you, Mrs. Kirkwood?” a feminine voice inquired nearby.

Bridget Kirkwood looked from her child to one of the staff members at Triple-H. The woman was a little older than Bridget and her nametag read: Broom Hilda. “I’m sorry for Pamela’s outburst, Hilda,” Bridget started.

“Oh, there is nothing to apologize for, Mrs. Kirkwood. But perhaps I can help with whatever is her problem.”

“It’s Rusty!” Pamela said in a child’s voice, which was to say, she said it loud. “He’s missing.”

“Oh, my!” Hilda’s eyes went wide. “Rusty is missing, eh? Can you describe him for me?”

Pamela did just that. “He’s got fur. And long ears. And a big nose. And he’s my goat.”

“It’s Pamela’s stuffed animal,” Bridget said a little quieter.

“Oh my,” Hilda said again. “That is even more important. We must get Rusty back at all costs. Did you know, Pamela, that the Triple-H employees a woman who can see the future?”

“No! Really?” Pamela’s eyes went wide.

“Absolutely. Why don’t we go find her and see what she can tell us about Rusty?”

The two ladies and one child returned to the front of the hotel where a woman in garish garb and spoke mostly gibberish swung open a side door and loudly proclaimed, “I sensed I was needed! I am Sybill Trelawney, and can see your future! I sense a child in trouble!” Sybill strode out into the check-in area looking at all the children. She caught Hilda’s eye who nodded.

“Ah! A young child in need! I see her clearly as day!” She strode over to Pamela and knelt down. “Now, my child, you are in need of mystical help. You have lost someone close to you. It is your familiar. Your best friend. Your… Rusty!”

“Yes!” Pamela agreed, smiling. “Have you seen him?!”

“I must consult with my inner eye.” She closed her eyes and mumbled some mumbo-jumbo and her eyes snapped open. “I have seen Rusty, young Pamela! My inner-eye has revealed his location to me. I see it as clear as day! He is in the third corridor on the second floor, behind the fifth suit of armor. He is on the floor, by the armor’s feet. He needs your help! You must hurry!”

“C’mon, mommy!” Pamela pulled out of her grip and ran off. Heidi ran after Pamela. Bridget didn’t run. She had run after Pamela too many times in the past few years to do another sprint now. She’d catch up with them.

She did catch up with an ecstatic Pamela who was clutching her Rusty and a Hilda who was watching over the scene. “How did your clairvoyant lady know Rusty was here?” she inquired of Heidi.

“Actually, Sybill’s job is to find lost keys, but to be truthful, I was using her to keep your daughter here calm while I put a call out to the rest of the staff to search for Rusty. They found him just before we met Sybill. They sent her the location which is how she knew where Rusty was.”

“So she didn’t have to go through that performance?”

“True. But Sybill was always a drama queen, and she loves hamming it up before kids. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Are you kidding? That was great! Can she do other tricks?”

Hilda smiled at Mrs. Kirkwood. “Something to occupy a little girl for an hour or two so her mother could get in a spa treatment?”

“Lord, yes!”

“I think we may be able to arrange something.”

Heidi met with Sybill later that day to arrange a private show for Pamela. Heidi discussed what Sybill would do, and made sure there were no bottles of any sort of booze in her room. That had been a condition of her re-employment at the castle. No more drinking. She had been sober ever since, but the staff was not taking any chances. As is, Sybill had no desire for booze these days as her life again had purpose. She was employed. She was making money. And… she didn’t have to hide the fact that she was a fraud.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
I had to stop this chapter here and not go on with so many other characters like Neville, Collin, Dennis, Susan, Ginny, Hannah, Padma, Penny, and so on. If anyone has something they want to write for any of the other characters, then you should do so. You can either send it to me and I will put it in this posted story while crediting you, or you can post a new story yourself. It’s all good either way.

The end is near.


	22. It’s All Hermione’s Fault There Is So Much Shafting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finished

**Author’s Note:**  
It goes without saying that there will be swearing. You have been warned.

**-o0o-**

Hermione’s world began to unravel long before that fateful September 1st. It had started at the end of her 4th year at Hogwarts. Her first and very best friend, Harry, had been assaulted, tortured, and had witnessed both a friend and fellow competitor be murdered in front of him. Further, his own blood had been used to restore a wraith back to corporeal form. As bad as that was, he had been vilified for reporting the truth, and attacked several more times, the last having dementors sent to suck out his soul. Her best friend was being attacked and what did she do?

She prattled on about learning, envisioning being a prefect, maybe head girl one day. She had been wrapped up in herself, she knew. She could introspect with the best of them. Her best friend was hurting and while she did look to help him, she had all this trust that her headmaster in turn had Harry’s best interest at heart. Only… he didn’t. He didn’t bother to show up for Harry’s trial. He didn’t try to see Sirius get exonerated from his decade stint in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit.

She thought the world of her teachers in August of that year. That naiveté dissipated in September. She had been shocked to see armed Goblins enter Hogwarts. Had been flabbergasted to see slave collars put on students. She was even a little amazed that Snape had been shackled (not that the son of a bitch didn’t deserve it). The Goblin had made Harry’s declaration that Hogwarts was to be closed effective immediately.

September 2nd had been a busy day for Hogwarts staff and students. She had used a school owl to let her parents know she would be home on the 3rd once the Headmaster had secured a return train. Most other students had done the same as she did. Later that day owls began returning with responses for many of the castle’s inhabitants.

On September 3rd, she left the school for the last time in stunned amazement along with all the other students. Many students had already gotten their letters of acceptance to other schools. To her disappointment, she didn’t get one. But in all fairness, when she saw that none of the Gryffindor students got one, she understood. As smart as she was, she had been marginalized by her insistence of going into Gryffindor as a first year. That may have been a good social choice, but it was a poor academic selection as the other houses got offers. There was the reason she had earned so many points over the years vs. the rest of her house.

And that reason: Gryffindor house had been comprised of morons. There were a few exceptions, but mostly, the disparaging remarks other houses had made about the Gryffindors as a whole had been spot on. She had been surrounded by incompetence and hadn’t even known it until she got kicked out of a lousy magical school.

The afternoon of September 3rd found Hermione back in London and being met by her mother who drove the two of them home in silence. Over dinner, her parents obviously wanted her to return to normal schooling, saying they could get tutors to help bring her scores up to where they needed to be. She wanted so badly to take them up on that offer, to take a chance to return to normal, but knew she had to do the right thing vs. the easy thing. She came clean and told them what the real deal was at Hogwarts and how things had gotten progressively worse.

Once she finished giving them a true accounting of what happened to her and her best friend Harry at the end of last term, they were adamant of wanting to get out of England and away from those magical terrorists. True, they loved their work, but they loved their daughter more. She finished her tale of what had happened this past summer with Harry’s trial, and subsequent expulsion, and what happened at school which forced them to pick her up from the train station earlier that day.

There was much more discussion. Was the threat over? For now, the magical terrorists were somewhat neutered, but there had been no mention of the Dark Wizard. Chances were, he was still on the loose. And chances were, he was going to be looking for a way to get Harry to capitulate to his demands. That most likely included kidnapping one of his friends. Of which, Hermione was at the top of that short list.

This fueled their argument with their daughter that they needed to get out of the country for a little while. Hermione was hesitant for more than one reason. This was her home. This was her country. But mostly, if she left then how would her friend Harry ever find her? Or how would she find him?

They talked and planned. There was much to do. They were going to leave the country, but that was not going to be an overnight decision. For one thing, they needed to find an income wherever they were headed. They opted to head for an English-speaking country, and ultimately settled on Victoria, Canada. Doctors Granger began to look for a way to sell their practice in the UK and move to Canada and take a new practice there. It was going to take some doing as medical licenses were involved. They began this work on September 4th but were unable to begin the moving process to Canada until May 26th the following year. Her parents knew it would take time and wanted Hermione to continue her studies. They had meant non-magical studies, but hadn’t said it.

Hermione, of course, took this as a golden opportunity to study both. She started taking intense home-schooling courses in normal subjects via a home-schooling course, as well as spending a few hours every day with Molly and her brood going over more magical subjects. At the Weasley home, she again saw many friends. Neville, Ginny, and Colin. She even made a new friend, Luna after Ron had been his usual insensitive self.

Ron, of course, was an idiot and thought the world should have revolved around his useless self. He didn’t want to do much schoolwork, thinking why bother since he was going to just join the Cannons in a year to two and then everything would be golden. Hermione had to, ah, wrestle that thought out of him. She did not use full-body wrestling, but instead used the more demure choke-the-ever-living-shit-out-of-someone-enough-times-for-them-to-get-the-message approach.

Hermione knew she was a bright witch. But more importantly, she was a bright girl. She didn’t need to understand everything about magic to understand magic itself. And she didn’t need to know magic at all to understand what was happening to the magical world. September 5th she found herself back in Diagon Alley hoping to find a magical tutor. She noticed the new prices right away and spoke with vendors to find out why.

Magical England was in a financial meltdown. Costs were going up because people weren’t buying the crap they used to. She searched the periodicals for answers. There wasn’t much. The Goblin captures were headlines for days. But not much else was said beyond who was taken. Hermione’s mind began making the necessary connections. She had studied a history beyond what that bloody ghost had taught. She recognized the beginning of a financial disaster that had world-wide implications to it. She was not a financial genius, but she did pay attention to trends. It helped that she had to review her parents’ taxes.

A few days later she accepted the offer from Mrs. Weasley for in-home classes. She had been amazed at what Mrs. Weasley was charging her for tutoring, but she was in a bind and Mrs. Weasley knew it. And it wasn’t entirely Mrs. Weasley’s fault either: prices had started going up and up. The Prophet was now up to a galleon a copy. She had stopped reading it for several reasons other than financial. The paper was becoming smaller and smaller while the price kept going up, and the story content themselves were more propaganda than anything. The Ministry was in fine shape. Things would get better. Stories like that ran over and over.

She didn’t know all the ins and outs of what actually happened until near the end of September when the Quibbler ran an article on the troubling finances. Of course, the article’s headline of Riddle’s Reversal meant more to her than most people would understand and it went on to cite how the Goblins had confiscated everything belonging to Riddle. All properties, all animals, all finances, all magicals, and even all outstanding magical debts.

That was when the true implications of what Harry had done came to light and why it was so evident that the economies of many magical societies were going down the toilet. Hermione tried to explain to Mrs. Weasley about the global economy and why the economy had become as bad as it had and why businesses were closing since no one was there to spend money that they didn’t have.

Another story was run in the Quibbler of Harry’s ownership of Riddle’s properties by Right of Conquest, and what had happened to some of the items. This was the first time she read about those DE’s in Azkaban having been euthanized. Of course, there was a list of things that DE’s had done to get their super-bad-ass tattoo in the day which negated any regards to their continued existence. Hermione had grown up in a fairly isolated environment she had come to realize. She had loving parents and an extended family. She may have been bullied in school now and then prior to Hogwarts, but she had never had to deal with a Death Eater showing up on her doorstep to sell his way of life, or a green spell of death. Others had. Including Harry’s parents, and even Harry himself. She had no pity for the DE’s who had been euthanized. They had given up their right to be salvaged a long time ago.

Another article was run in the Quibbler a few days after that that cemented how truly screwed Magical England was. This was a list of all the chattel taken by the Goblins. There were several updates of how Lucius Malfoy was now shoveling Hippogriff dung and seemed to be addicted to it since he had purple smudges around his nose, or at least that is what Hermione gathered when she saw his picture next to his update. Marcus Flint and his father were rented out as Troll biologists. That couldn’t be right, Hermione frowned. Oh, there was a misprint she later found. Father and son were rented out to Troll biologists as test assistants. Apparently they were pretty limber on their feet which was good since the biologists were testing variations on pheromones to increase that magical population. The Flints had been sought after by the biologists, the article continued, because of their uncanny resemblance to the mostly idea-less creatures.

Many who knew Hermione knew that she was a bright girl. She was very intelligent, they would say. She could recite facts, historical events, and so on. She remembered a lot of what was already written in books. But that is not the only thing that made Hermione smart. She could also mentally evaluate a situation for subtle non-verbal clues. She also had the ability to read between the lines for content that was there as well as understand what was missing. Hundreds of names were on the list published in the Quibbler. Yet only a few had their current work assignments published. She looked at the family names, located a magical heritage tree and found what she was looking for.

She then did the math of those collected and compared them to the Wizengamot seating chart. She could add. And apparently Harry could subtract. She saw that Harry now had control of 16 other family chairs for a grand total of 17 votes, or 34% of the Wizengamot. She skimmed the Wizengamot charter and saw the “must have 75% vote” mandate and realized how big Harry’s plan had been.

She laughed at the thought of how Harry had done this, as well as how the magicals had let this happen. She was still chortling over the thought, and thanked Luna once again for bringing the Quibbler to her attention. Minutes later Ron came into the room and was his usual tactless self. Hermione then spent the next 15 minutes throttling the ginger into apologizing for his comment that girls didn’t need to learn anything in school since they had a job waiting for them in the kitchen as well as around the house once they married a man.

**-o0o-**

Over the ensuing months, Hermione realized how much Harry meant to her. She needed to find her best friend more than anything to let him know where she was going. Even if he never wanted to see her, she wanted to let him know what his friendship had meant. She knew Harry didn’t want to be found and asked Luna what her thoughts were. Luna suggested putting in a personal ad in the Quibbler. Hermione, not sure what else to do, did just that before she and her parents left England, not to return.

Late spring she and her parents left for Canada. Practice sold, they headed for a better climate. June began with the Granger family in a new country, a new house, and having to learn a new custom that was harder than it looked: driving on the right side of the road.

Time went on. Hermione and her parents met the neighbors, took trips, and enjoyed being near the coastline. Friends were made, neighborhood pets did their duty on their lawn (much to her father’s annoyance), and the Canadian magical enclave was soon discovered only a thousand miles away.

August 17th started normally enough. The family sat around the breakfast nook, reading papers and enjoying coffee and tea. Promptly at 7:23am local, an owl landed on the back porch railing. Hermione look out the window and saw that a message was in its claws. She retrieved the message, returned to her seat and read the note.

Her hands began trembling almost immediately.

“Hermione?” her mother said with a concerned voice. “What is it?”

“It’s from Harry. He wants to see me.”

**-o0o-**

August 18th, 1996

Hermione, passport in hand and wearing a simple dress, crossed the border into the US in the early morning to make her way to the Pike Place Market in Seattle. She would meet Harry near a famous fishmonger who enjoyed throwing fish around the facility much to the tourists’ delight.

At half past noon, she felt a light tap on her shoulder while sitting at a sidewalk café. She turned and smiled. “Hullo Harry, Luna.”

Her two friends took seats at the table. Actually, Luna took the available seat while Harry grabbed another chair from the table next to theirs. Hermione had not expected Luna to be there along with Harry.

“You’re looking good, Hermione. How are you?” Harry said.

Hermione smiled. “Actually… I am well. For some reason I feel calmer these days.”

“True, you don’t look stressed,” Harry pointed out.

“How can you tell?”

“You’re smiling,” Harry said simply.

“Thank you. I’m actually surprised to see you here, Luna.”

“Why is that, Hermione?”

“Well last we saw each other was at Mrs. Weasley’s home-school the Friday before I left. You and Ginny were throwing spiders at Ron that Fred and George kept giving you. I had no idea you were going to be the first to find Harry. How did you find him?”

“Oh, I just asked one of the Goblins at the bank where I could find Harry and he was happy to hand over an address.”

“I thought you said you used some weird mumbo-jumbo method to find me.”

“Maybe I used that too,” Luna grinned at him.

“So getting my address from a teller was that easy?” Harry inquired.

“No. I had to bribe him first.”

“What did you use as a bribe?” Hermione also inquired.

“I promised Teller Bludsnot I would arrange him to have a dance with Ginny when she was older.”

Hermione smiled, and then laughed.

“Does Ginny know?” Hermione said.

“Not at all,” Luna replied. “I’ll surprise it on her during her wedding.”

“I think if you do that, then you may lose her friendship,” Hermione pointed out.

“Oh, I have a plan for that as well. You see, when she doesn’t want to dance with Teller Bludsnot, I will just ask for some hair, put it in a polyjuice container, and give it to Ron. Then if he doesn’t want to perform his wifely duties that night, he will instead have to dance with Teller Bludsnot.”

“Damn, Luna, remind me not to get you mad at me,” Harry grinned.

“If I did that then we wouldn’t have any makeup…”

“Luna!”

Hermione looked at her two friends, an idea percolating. “Ah, okay. So how have you two been?”

“We’re fucking great!” Luna beamed.

Harry barked a quick laugh, then covered it up.

“That good, eh?”

“Fuck yes!” Luna was still beaming.

“Luna…” Harry started, then stopped. Turning back to his other friend, “We’re doing well, Hermione. Luna managed to track me down a few days ago for a story with her paper.”

“I’m not surprised. She is a very good writer. I read her articles.”

“You do? What did you think of the fonts I use?”

“Very colorful. I think the automatic changing size as the reader’s eyes focuses on a word is a nice touch.”

“Thank you. I suggested that to my father.”

“Hermione, don’t take this the wrong way, but I can tell you have a question on your mind. Go ahead and ask it. I won’t bite.”

“Until later,” Luna smirked.

“You keep that up, Luna, and I’ll withhold the spanking.”

“I’ll be good,” she stole a sip of Hermione’s drink.

“Okay, Hermione. Go ahead and ask,” Harry prompted.

“You know, I was prepared to ask you what happened from last summer to today. I wanted to understand what drove you to do everything you did. To ask you why you did what you did to all those purebloods. But that is not what I really want to know.”

“What do you want to know, Hermione? I promise to answer you truthfully.”

She paused, then looked him straight in the eyes. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Harry didn’t pause. “Hell yes.”

“Me too,” Luna put out there. “Hell yes.”

“Thanks,” Hermione’s heart was beating very fast now. “You two want to get out of here?”

“Absolutely. I have a condo near here. Let’s head over there.”

The three rose to leave the sitting area for the bakery café.

“So what have you two been up to since you met?” Hermione said.

“Fucking!” Luna smiled.

“Want to come back to our place and join in?”

Hermione’s resolve broke. “Fuck yes! I thought you’d never ask!”

“Great! I have some strawberry shortcake. And whipped cream!”

**-o0o-**

As the three young adults walked away hand-in-hand-in-hand, none of them noticed a black line appear by a door. The line grew longer and then wider. Seconds later a young witch stepped out of the black line and watched fondly as the three young friends walked off. Her sunglasses covered eyes that smiled at the sight of a relationship just forming.

“Well? How did I do?” she said out loud. Her voice was not a whisper, and not a shout, but it was clear and loud as it was directed behind her.

“Recap what you did and what happened, please,” a silky voice replied.

“I inserted a few references for Harry to find at the end of his third year and he began researching magical law from that. I then made sure Dumbledore didn’t get the notice the court time had been changed. As you can see, Harry took the initiative and ran with it.”

“That’s it?” a male voice asked behind her.

“That’s it,” she agreed, turning around.

“Shit, Hermione! That’s… great!” the blond smiled and gave her a hug. “Two tweaks and look at all the havoc that was caused. Even Harry never got it down to just two tweaks! At best it was, what, 417 changes? That was your lowest count?”

“Well, technically, I did get it done with one tweak,” Harry admitted.

An older Luna looked at her Harry. “I don’t thinking zipping into a universe in order to drop a Hydrogen bomb on Hogwarts during the summer to kill the headmaster should be counted as a successful tweak, do you?”

“But I…”

“Do you?!” Luna stressed it again with a small uptick to an eyebrow.

“No, dear. I managed 417 changes as my lowest count. But to be fair, I was bored so at least a couple hundred were doing some real nasty pranks.”

“Two hundred, four hundred, it doesn’t matter, Harry. Our Hermione managed to take out the bad guys with only two tweaks! And it was on her first try! Maybe God should have picked her to reset the multiverse with the anti-Albus wave.”

“Well, I for one am glad he didn’t. If he had, we wouldn’t have gotten back together again,” Hermione kissed Harry.

“You did a fantastic job, Hermione,” Harry agreed.

“Thanks. I can’t believe this was the kind of work you did for all those millennia in thousands of universes.”

“Oh, initially it wasn’t. At first Harry just showed up in a dimension and killed Albus and the rest of the magicals he was ‘shepherding’ into a new future.”

“Luna’s right, Hermione. I did show up in those universes and whacked one Albus after another. But it was necessary since he was shepherding them into a future of crap.”

Hermione gave her Luna and her Harry a kiss. She then tweaked his nose lightly. “You know who I don’t like more than Albus?”

“Snape?” Harry returned.

“Hell yes,” Hermione agreed. “Let’s find a reality where we can really give it to Snapey. I never liked that asshole.”

“Well, I think I can make that happen. Do you have any parameters in mind, milady?”

“You know,” Hermione started, her thumb and finger on her chin as she thought something out, and Luna’s chin resting on her shoulder. “I wonder what would happen if we found a reality that had, say, an assassin-Harry, a battle-weary Auror by the name of Luna, a spell researcher like Susan, and an assistant Headmistress Hermione? And if we started in the future, what if we gave them an idea on traveling back in time to their younger selves. I wonder what they could do,” Hermione grinned.

“I like the way you are thinking,” Luna said. “Harry. Chop-chop. Make it happen.”

“Yes, miladys. Your wishes will be done. Want to grab a muffin before we rip a hole in reality?”

“Do they have pumpkin?” Luna inquired.

“If they don’t, I’ll bring an asteroid down on their heads!”

“Yeah, yeah. Please don’t. I really don’t want to clean that up like the last time,” Luna replied.

“Can I smite them as my enemies?”

“Did they anger you?”

“Well, if they don’t have pumpkin muffins that will make you upset and that makes me ANGRY!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Luna agreed. “I get it. But maybe they have a pumpkin muffin. Hermione?”

“Yes, Harry. Let’s go see what they have before you bring this bakery down to its foundation.”

“Okay. No fire and brimstone until we see if they have pumpkin muffins.”

“There you go, sweetie,” Hermione flashed a smile. “We’ll get you trained yet. Even if it takes all eternity.”

“Yes dears,” the god-powered Harry Potter agreed as he held the door open for his two ladies to enter the bakery.

**-o0o-**

**Author’s comment:**  
Currently, this is the end of the story. There may or may not be additional chapters in this storyline as the muse hits. There are still many more characters to write about. But for now I am wrapping this rewrite up.

As many long-time Harry Potter readers may have picked up, and I hope you have, the super-Harry, Hermione, and Luna at the end are based on the story “Multiverse” by Bobmin356. Bob sadly passed away early in 2016. He will be sorely missed, but will never be forgotten. Thank you Alyx and Bob for creating Multiverse and all the other fantastic stories. Your work is what truly brought me into the HP fandom world.

Reading stories like the original ‘Charlie does the Foxtrot or Damn the Torpedoes’ by Lady FoxFire, and ‘Reunion’ by Rorschach’s Blot (which coincidentally, wink-wink, contains an assassin-Harry, a battle-weary Auror named Luna, a spell researcher named Susan, and an assistant Headmistress Hermione who go back in time) are what have kept me reading and enjoying the writings as much as I have. Thank you again, Lady FoxFire, for allowing me to muck around in your Charlie story as much as I have.

And for all that read this story: thank you one and all for reading and providing your comments. I have appreciated reading them and have used them for motivation to complete this. And special thanks for those reviewers who kept me honest with the ideas and the characters. This includes agnar, Slytherin66, and Beerguzzler500.

 **Next up:**  
I will be posting my two original fan fictions I wrote years ago. They were based off Star Trek: The Next Generation. The first is: Picard’s Contest (starring Jean-Luc), and the second is: Mirror Cracked (starring Riker, as well as Commander Al Bundy – and yes, that is the Al Bundy from Married With Children). Both shows were popular when I wrote these. I just need to finish edits on these and start posting. As you may surmise: both will be comedies. The electronic files I had these files stored on long since corrupted and I have to retype everything, and I’m updating it as I go along.

 **Future reading:**  
I continue to work a job that pays the bills for me and my family. That has not and will not change. But I enjoy writing, even as a hobby. I am currently working on several stories that I want to get published. These will be novel length and I am curious for feedback from anyone. The first story I am working on is tentatively titled: The Angry Scientist, and will have a similar vibe and style like this entire Charlie Foxtrot story. There will be swearing, adventure, swearing, aliens, swearing, cool destructive toys, swearing, monsters, and yes, more swearing. It will be a science fiction comedy story. All characters my own, all concepts my own. And the swearing is for comedy effect, not because it needs to be mean or show a character harshly. My question to anyone reading this is: would any of you be interested in reading something like that? Knowing how I’ve created characters, settings, and dialog you have read here, would you want to read an entire new story along that similar vein? Let me know if you can. I plan to explore this novel idea as I am having a lot of fun creating everything about it.

My second story is massively more complex. Over a year ago I watched the movie, Edge of Tomorrow. It is basically a military version of the movie, Groundhog Day. Both movies center on a man reliving the same day over and over. I had an idea from that and began creating a more complex storyline. It was original, I thought. It hadn’t been done, I thought. It was sure to win SF awards, I thought. Well, I was partly right. A kind of version of my story idea had been done. It had been original. And it had won awards. The one saving grace for my story vs. this other story is that mine will be more science fiction than drama. More action than drama. More comedy than drama. As I am putting this storyline together I have found out it is much more massive than I originally conceived. I am not sure if I’m plotting way too much, should scale all of it back, or just shelve it for a bit. This book is still a long way away. Still, it is a fun bit of mental exploration of creating characters, scenes, technology, plotlines, and worlds. There is a fair bit of math involved as well, so that will take some time to gather as well.

Before I sign off, I am happy to say that I have at least one more HP story I am currently working on. It is a Star Wars / Harry Potter story. One in which Harry will have to release his inner marauder. How will the Empire survive? And… there may be a Mr. Black cameo in there. Along with ICPMs (not ICBMs). The tentative title for that one is: The Force Is Everywhere.

Thank you all for reading and commenting. You have all helped me with my writing.

Steve


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